footpath by the side, with bicyclists innumerable struggling over the broken surface, with hired carriages carrying family parties for a drive in the sun through the heart of the Forest. If popularity of resort be a reason why a road should be good rather than bad, as surely it ought to be, then some authority has a good deal to answer for. This was, shameful to relate, my first visit to Epping Forest, but, before giving a first impression of it, there is a ghost to be exorcised. So often as my mind recurs to this passage through the heart of the Forest it is haunted by the memory of one particular cyclist. He was thin, pale to the point of haggardness, anything than robust to look at. He crouched forward over his handle bars, in the manner beloved of the "scorcher" and depriving the exercise of any health-giving effects it might produce, until his back was parallel to the road. We were travelling, designedly as a test of the car, and accurately as the speedometer bore witness, at a steady and unvarying pace of twenty miles an hour, on the level, on downward gradients, and up hills which, while they offered no sort of trouble to a powerful car, would have made me grunt and grumble and go slowly if I had been on a bicycle. Yet this apparent weakling clung to us, being in fact never more than twenty yards behind us for many miles, without showing any signs of severe effort save in the tense features of his pallid face. It was really a great achievement, greater probably than the bicyclist was aware; it exemplified the effect of an air-shield and the value of a pace-maker in races; but it was a relief when, at last, the pale-faced bicyclist relinquished the pursuit.