The BICYCLE. Because--it's no fault of yours, of course, but the way you've been constructed--you couldn't go far enough to knock _anybody_ up. And she doesn't get tired now, either. I'm not the kind of bicycle to boast; but I've often heard her say that she much prefers her "bike" (she always calls me her "bike"--very nice and friendly of her, isn't it?) to any mere _horse_. BAYARD. To any mere horse! And does she--give any reasons? The BICYCLE. Lots. For one thing, she says she feels so absolutely safe on me; she knows that, whatever she meets, I shall never start, or shy, or rear, or anything of that sort. BAYARD. I don't remember playing any of those tricks with her, however hard she pulled the curb. The BICYCLE. Then she says she never has to consider whether any distance will be too much for me. BAYARD. As for _that_----But the longer I was out with her, the better I was pleased; she might have brought me home as lame as a tree all round, and _I_ shouldn't have cared! The BICYCLE. Perhaps not. But _she_ would; so inconvenient, you see. Now _my_ strong point is, I _can't_ go lame--in good hands, of course, and she knows exactly how to manage me, I will say that for her! BAYARD. Does she give you carrots or sugar after a ride? she did _me_. THE BICYCLE (_with a creak of contempt_). Now what _do_ you suppose I could do with sugar or a carrot if I had it? No, a drop or two of oil now and then is all I take in the way of sustenance. That's _another_ point in my favour, I cost little or nothing to keep. Now, your oats and hay and stuff, I daresay, cost more in a year than I'm worth altogether! BAYARD.. I must admit that you have the advantage of me in cheapness. If I thought she grudged me my oats----But I'm afraid I couldn't manage on a drop or two of oil. The BICYCLE. You'd want buckets of it to oil _your_ bearings. No, she wouldn't save by that! (_STUBBS re-enters._) Ah, here comes my man. I must be going; got to take her over to Pineborough, rather a bore this dusty weather, but when a lady's in the case, eh? BAYARD. There's a nasty hill going into Pineborough; do be careful how you take her down it! The BICYCLE. You forget, my friend, I'm not a Boneshaker, I'm a Safety. Why, she'll just put her feet up on the rests, fold her arms, and leave the rest to me. She knows _I_ can be trusted. BAYARD. Just tell me this before you go. Does--she doesn't pat you, or kiss you on your--er--handle-bar after a run, does she? The BICYCLE (_turning its front wheel to reply, as STUBBS wheels it out_). You don't imagine I should stand any sentimental rot of that sort, do you? She knows better than to try it on! BAYARD (_to himself_). I'm glad she doesn't kiss it. I don't think I _could_ have stood that! _Same Scene. Some Hours Later._