Over the brow of Haymarket Hill they go, and the long steep sweep into the valley of the Owassee lies before them. Charley, with her feet on the "rest," commences to descend. An amazed cow grazing by the roadside makes a charge on the singular vehicle, but the girl never flinches, and with one hand on the steering-bar and the other on the brake she avoids every stone, every rut, every gully in the road. The irate cow, after nearly plunging on its nose down the first steep incline, pauses to recover its senses and then returns slowly up the hill. Starrett waves it a laughing adieu. "Sensible bovine that," he says; "she knows that a stern chase is a long chase." "My, though!" exclaims delighted Charley, "we're just flying, Starrett! Aren't we?" They are indeed. The bushes whiz past,--the wind sweeps their faces,--trees, stones, fences flit by like phantoms. Charley feels like a bird on the wing. Such exhilaration is there in a good tricycle "coast" downhill! But it is not all such pleasure; for, a few miles farther on, they become acquainted with the other side of the story, as they go toiling up the long ascent of Comstock Hill, a sandy and winding incline that leads to the highlands of Fisherville. "If it weren't for the sand," said Charley as she pushes her tricycle before her, "I would test the new 'power-gear' on my 'Columbia' by riding up Comstock Hill. But, dear me, I believe there are not three yards of solid earth on this road!" "Never mind, we're more than half-way up," said Starrett, consolingly. "Do you suppose it's sandy like this near Curtin Harbor?" inquired Charley. "I haven't the least idea," Starrett replied. "If it is, we can branch off and take the cars at Minot Station." "The cars? Why, Starrett Van Rensselaer!" exclaims Charley. "Why, I wouldn't take the cars--not for anything--unless--well, unless I were fairly driven to it." And now they both draw a long breath, for the crest of Comstock Hill is won. "Look behind you, Starrett," says Charley. "Did you ever see a prettier picture?" Starrett acknowledges he never did. The low-lying valley is green and fair. The Owassee stretches like a silver ribbon across the picture, and there is not a human being in sight save these two tricyclers who take all this summer beauty into their impressible young hearts. On they go, through Fisherville and into the open country again. Truly no grass grows underneath those flashing wheels. The new "Columbia" has the oil well worked in by this time, and the "Royal Mail," with its queer one-sided "steerer," seems undisturbed by any ordinary roads. The freshening wind is behind them; the blue sky, cloud-flecked, above; and all around, bird-song and the rustle of blowing grass and bending boughs. "This is grand, Charley!" cries Starrett; "so much better than horseback riding--and I've tried both."