The Wheels of Chance: A Bicycling IdyllWells, H. G. (Herbert George)
General
The Wheels of Chance: A Bicycling Idyll
Wells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Cycling -- Fiction; England -- Social conditions -- 19th century -- Fiction
And now to tell of Mr. Hoopdriver, rising with the sun, vigilant,
active, wonderful, the practicable half of the lead-framed window stuck
open, ears alert, an eye flickering incessantly in the corner panes, in
oblique glances at the Angel front. Mrs. Wardor wanted him to have his
breakfast downstairs in her kitchen, but that would have meant
abandoning the watch, and he held out strongly. The bicycle,
_cap-à-pie_, occupied, under protest, a strategic position in the shop.
He was expectant by six in the morning. By nine horrible fears
oppressed him that his quest had escaped him, and he had to reconnoitre
the Angel yard in order to satisfy himself. There he found the ostler
(How are the mighty fallen in these decadent days!) brushing down the
bicycles of the chase, and he returned relieved to Mrs. Wardor’s
premises. And about ten they emerged, and rode quietly up the North
Street. He watched them until they turned the corner of the post
office, and then out into the road and up after them in fine style!
They went by the engine-house where the old stocks and the whipping
posts are, and on to the Chichester road, and he followed gallantly. So
this great chase began.
They did not look round, and he kept them just within sight, getting
down if he chanced to draw closely upon them round a corner. By riding
vigorously he kept quite conveniently near them, for they made but
little hurry. He grew hot indeed, and his knees were a little stiff to
begin with, but that was all. There was little danger of losing them,
for a thin chalky dust lay upon the road, and the track of her tire was
milled like a shilling, and his was a chequered ribbon along the way.
So they rode by Cobden’s monument and through the prettiest of
villages, until at last the downs rose steeply ahead. There they
stopped awhile at the only inn in the place, and Mr. Hoopdriver took up
a position which commanded the inn door, and mopped his face and
thirsted and smoked a Red Herring cigarette. They remained in the inn
for some time. A number of chubby innocents returning home from school,
stopped and formed a line in front of him, and watched him quietly but
firmly for the space of ten minutes or so. “Go away,” said he, and they
only seemed quietly interested. He asked them all their names then, and
they answered indistinct murmurs. He gave it up at last and became
passive on his gate, and so at length they tired of him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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