A rosy-faced man in a straw hat claimed attention. “I DID save the front wheel,” he said; “you'd have had that tyre catch, too, if I hadn't kept turning it round.” It became manifest that this was so. The front wheel had retained its tyre, was intact, was still rotating slowly among the blackened and twisted ruins of the rest of the machine. It had something of that air of conscious virtue, of unimpeachable respectability, that distinguishes a rent collector in a low neighbourhood. “That wheel's worth a pound,” said the rosy-faced man, making a song of it. “I kep' turning it round.” Newcomers kept arriving from the south with the question, “What's up?” until it got on Grubb's nerves. Londonward the crowd was constantly losing people; they would mount their various wheels with the satisfied manner of spectators who have had the best. Their voices would recede into the twilight; one would hear a laugh at the memory of this particularly salient incident or that. “I'm afraid,” said the gentleman of the motor-car, “my tarpaulin's a bit done for.” Grubb admitted that the owner was the best judge of that. “Nothin, else I can do for you?” said the gentleman of the motor-car, it may be with a suspicion of irony. Bert was roused to action. “Look here,” he said. “There's my young lady. If she ain't 'ome by ten they lock her out. See? Well, all my money was in my jacket pocket, and it's all mixed up with the burnt stuff, and that's too 'ot to touch. Is Clapham out of your way?” “All in the day's work,” said the gentleman with the motor-car, and turned to Edna. “Very pleased indeed,” he said, “if you'll come with us. We're late for dinner as it is, so it won't make much difference for us to go home by way of Clapham. We've got to get to Surbiton, anyhow. I'm afraid you'll find us a little slow.” “But what's Bert going to do?” said Edna. “I don't know that we can accommodate Bert,” said the motor-car gentleman, “though we're tremendously anxious to oblige.” “You couldn't take the whole lot?” said Bert, waving his hand at the deboshed and blackened ruins on the ground. “I'm awfully afraid I can't,” said the Oxford man. “Awfully sorry, you know.” “Then I'll have to stick 'ere for a bit,” said Bert. “I got to see the thing through. You go on, Edna.” “Don't like leavin' you, Bert.” “You can't 'elp it, Edna.”... The last Edna saw of Bert was his figure, in charred and blackened shirtsleeves, standing in the dusk. He was musing deeply by the mixed ironwork and ashes of his vanished motor-bicycle, a melancholy figure. His retinue of spectators had shrunk now to half a dozen figures. Flossie and Grubb were preparing to follow her desertion. “Cheer up, old Bert!” cried Edna, with artificial cheerfulness. “So long.” “So long, Edna,” said Bert. “See you to-morrer.” “See you to-morrer,” said Bert, though he was destined, as a matter of fact, to see much of the habitable globe before he saw her again.