The head of the house, a great, burly, red-haired farmer, came in with the oldest son, a perfect chip off the old block, and we sat down to a repast of fried salt pork, fried potatoes, fried onions, hot biscuits and coffee. The meal concluded, the whole family went out to see us off. As I rounded the corner of the shed, I noticed the door which I had latched so carefully, standing open. Then what a sight met my eyes! The wheel lay flat on the floor, groceries, bedding and equipment scattered all about, while a shoving, grunting, struggling mass of hogs rooted, trampled and fought over it. Chains were broken, tires torn from the wheels, spokes out, skirt guard bent and twisted, while through and over all was cocoa, sugar, coffee, plumbago, clothing, oil and pieces of the repair kit. “Haw, haw,” roared the farmer, delighted with the novel sight. “Them hawgs sure have made a mash on that there bicycle.” “Ya, hah. I fixed ’em, I fixed ’em,” shrieked my erstwhile patient, jumping about in glee. The little woman burst into tears. Dan seized a heavy single-tree, which stood in a corner, and laid about him fiercely, sending the squealing drove pell-mell from the building. Before the farmer could stay his hand, he had laid low with a broken back a fine young boar. A few moments later a sow showed evidences of internal trouble, was taken with convulsions, and while we were gathering up the almost hopeless wreck, laid down and died, much to the grief of friend farmer, whose mirth was turned to mourning. Dan declared that the sow had swallowed his razor and wanted to hold an autopsy on the remains, but was forced to let the cause of death stand as acute indigestion. The owner of the hogs cursed bitterly as we started to drag the poor old wheel back to our little camp, where Dan spent a day and a half endeavouring to repair it. But the case was hopeless. The good green tandem would never take the open road again.