Twenty paces away was Berry, plodding slowly in our direction, wheeling a tired-looking bicycle.  His clothes were thick with dust, his collar was like a piece of wet rag, and on his face there was a look of utter and profound resignation.

As we started to our feet—­

“Don’t touch me,” he said.  “I’m leading in the Marathon race.  The conditions are fearful.  Competitors are required not only to walk, but at the same time to propel a bicycle, the hind tire of which must be deflated.  You’re only allowed five falls, and I’ve used four of them.”  With a final effort he reached the edge of the lawn and laid the bicycle gently on its side. “‘How we brought the good news from Aix to Ghent,’” he continued.  “Yes, I see the car, but I’m not interested.  During the last five hours my life has been so crowded with incident that there is no room for anything else.  Isn’t there a cycling club about here I can join?  I’ve always fancied a grey sweater.”

“Did I hear you say that you had fallen, brother?” said I.

“You did.  Four times were these noble limbs prostrated in the dust.  The first time was when the handle-bars came off.  Oh, it’s a beautiful machine.”  Solemnly he waited for the laughter to subside.  “But she doesn’t turn easily.  If my blood counts, there are at least three corners in the County that are for ever England.  And now will somebody fetch the Vicar?  I shan’t last long.  And some drinks.”  He stretched himself upon the grass.  “Several drinks.  All together in a large vessel.”

Jill fled, weak with laughter, to execute his commands.  Berry proceeded to remove his collar and tie.

“I can’t think,” he said suddenly, “why they call them safety bicycles.  I suppose it’s because they strike only on the box.”  He turned to Daphne.  “Since I left you this morning, woman, I have walked with Death.  Oh, more than once.  Of course I’ve walked without him, too.  Miles and miles.”  He groaned.  “I never knew there was so much road.”

“Didn’t you do any riding?” said Jonah.  “I know they’re called push-bikes, but that’s misleading.  Lots of people ride them.  That’s what the saddle’s for.”

“Foul drain,” said my brother-in-law, “your venomous bile pollutes the crystal flood of my narration.  Did I ride?  That was the undoing of the sage.  When he recovered consciousness for the second time, it was to discover that the chain was missing and that the back tire was windless.  In my endeavours to find the chain I lost myself.  That reminds me.  I must put an advertisement in The Times to the effect that any one returning a bicycle-chain to White Ladies will be assaulted.  I have no desire to be reminded of to-day.  If anybody had told me you could cover about fifty miles of open road in England without meeting anything but road-hogs, who not only failed to stop when I hailed them, but choked and blinded me with their filthy dust, I should have prayed for his soul.  And not a pub open!”