Chapter II: Part 2

Illustration: "'Tain't no use tellin' me you've broke down! Stands to reason a motor-caw goin' down 'ill's _bound_ to be goin' too fast. So we'll put it down at about thirty mile an hour! Your name and address, sir, _hif_ you please."

* * * * *

URBS IN RURE

["When every one has a bicycle and flies to the suburban roads, the suburban dwellers will desert their houses and come back to crowded London to find quiet and freedom from dust."--_Daily Paper._]

Time was desire for peace would still
My footsteps lure to Richmond Hill,
Or to the groves of Burnham I,
Much craving solitude, would fly;
Thence, through the Summer afternoon,
'Mid fragrant meads, knee-deep in June,
Lulled by the song of birds and bees,
I'd saunter idly at mine ease
To that still churchyard where, with Gray,
I'd dream a golden hour away,
Forgetful all of aught but this--
That peace was mine, and mine was bliss.

But now should my all-eager feet
Seek out some whilom calm retreat,
"Pip, pip!" resounds in every lane,
"Pip, pip!" the hedges ring again,
"Pip, pip!" the corn, "Pip, pip!" the rye,
"Pip, pip!" the woods and meadows cry,
As through the thirsty, fever'd day,
The red-hot scorchers scorch their way.
Peace is no longer, Rest is dead,
And sweetest Solitude hath fled;
And over all, the cycling lust
Hath spread its trail of noise and dust.

So, would I woo the joys of Quiet,
I see no more the country's riot,
But the comparatively still
Environment of Ludgate Hill.
There, 'mongst the pigeons of St. Paul's,
I muse melodious madrigals,
Or loiter where the waters sport
'Mid the cool joys of Fountain Court,
Where, undisturbed by sharp "Pip, pip!"
My nimble numbers lightly trip,
And country peace I find again
In Chancery and Fetter Lane.

* * * * *

VEHICULAR PROGRESSION.--_Mr. Ikey Motor_ (_to customer_). Want a machine, sir? Certainly, we've all sorts to suit your build.

_Customer._ It isn't for me, but for my mother-in-law.

_Mr. Ikey Motor._ For your mother-in-law! How would a steam roller suit her?

[Mr. I. M. _is immediately made aware that the lady in question has
overheard his ill-timed jest, while the customer vanishes in blue
fire._

* * * * *

EXPERTO CREDE.--What is worse than raining cats and dogs?--Hailing motor omnibuses.

* * * * *

Illustration: COMPREHENSIVE.--_Owner_ (_as the car starts backing down the hill_). "Pull everything you can see, and put your foot on everything else!"

* * * * *

Illustration: _Farmer_ (_in cart_). "Hi, stop! Stop, you fool! Don't you see my horse is running away?"

_Driver of Motor-car_ (_hired by the hour_). "Yes, it's all very well for you to say 'stop,' but I've forgotten how the blooming thing works!"

* * * * *

Illustration: SIMPLE ENOUGH

_Yokel_ (_in pursuit of escaped bull, to Timmins, who is "teaching himself"_). "Hi, Mister! If yer catch hold of his leading-stick, he can't hurt yer!"

* * * * *

ANTI-BICYCLIST MOTTO.--Rather a year of Europe than a cycle of to-day.

* * * * *

MOTTO FOR THOSE WHO "BIKE."--"And wheels rush in where horses fear to tread."

* * * * *

Illustration: A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY.--

_Major Mustard_ (_who has been changing several of his servants_). "How dare you call yourself a chauffeur?"

_Alfonsoe._ "Mais non! Non, monsieur! Je ne suis pas 'chauffeur.' J'ai dit que je suis le chef. Mais monsieur comprehend not!"

* * * * *

CYCLES! CYCLES!! CYCLES!!!

SOMETHING ABSOLUTELY NEW

THE LITTLE HANDLE-BAR SPRING

NO MORE ACCIDENTS! NO MORE STOLEN CYCLES!

All our bicycles are fitted with the Little Handle-Bar Spring, which, when pressed, causes the machine to fall into 114 pieces.

Anyone can press the spring, but it takes an expert three months to rebuild it, thus trebling the life of a bicycle.

We are offering this marvellous invention at the absurd price of

50 guineas cash down,

or 98 weekly instalments of 1 guinea. [Special reductions to company promoters and men with large families.]

We can't afford to do it for less, because when once you have bought one you will never want another.

ADVICE TO PURCHASERS

Don't lose your head when the machine runs away with you down the hill; simply press the spring.

Don't wait for your rich uncle to die; just send him one of our cycles.

Don't lock your cycle up at night; merely press the spring.

Don't be misled by other firms who say that their machines will also fall to pieces; they are only trying to sell their cycles; we want to sell YOU.

NOTE.--We can also fit this marvellous Little Spring to perambulators, bath-chairs, and bathing machines.

We append below some two out of our million testimonials. The other 999,998 are expected every post.

_July, 1906._

Dear Sirs,--I bought one of your cycles in May, 1895, and it is still as good as when I received it. I attribute this solely to the Little Handle-Bar Spring, which I pressed as soon as I received the machine.

P.S.--What do you charge for rebuilding a cycle?

_August, 1906._

Gentlemen,--Last month I started to ride to Barnet on one of your cycles. When ascending Muswell Hill, I lost control of the machine, but I simply pressed the spring, and now I feel that I cannot say enough about your bike. I shall never ride any other again.

P.S.--I should very much like to meet the inventor of the "Little Handle-Bar Spring."

* * * * *

Illustration: _Friend._ "Going about thirty, are we? But don't you run some risk of being pulled up for exceeding the legal pace?"

_Owner._ "Not in a sober, respectable-looking car like this. Of course, if you go about in a blatant, brass-bound, scarlet-padded, snorting foreign affair, like _that_, you are bound to be dropped on, no matter how slow you go!"

* * * * *

Illustration: AN AMBUSCADE.--Captain de Smythe insidiously beguiles the fair Laura and her sister to a certain secluded spot where, as he happens to know, his hated rival, Mr. Tomkyns, is in the habit of secretly practising on the bicycle. He (Captain de S.) calculates that a mere glimpse of Mr. T., as he wobbles wildly by on that instrument, will be sufficient to dispel any illusions that the fair Laura may cherish in her bosom respecting that worthy man.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Our own Undergraduate_ (_fresh from his Euclid_). "Ha! Two riders to one prop."

* * * * *

Illustration: INSULT ADDED TO INJURY.--_Wretched Boy._ "Hi, guv'nor! D'yer want any help?"

* * * * *

THE PERFECT AUTOMOBILIST

[_With acknowledgments to the Editor of "The Car"_]

Who is the happy road-deer? Who is he
That every motorist should want to be?

The Perfect Automobilist thinks only of others. He is an Auto-altruist.

He never wantonly kills anybody.

If he injures a fellow-creature (and this will always be the fellow-creature's fault) he voluntarily buys him a princely annuity. In the case of a woman, if she is irreparably disfigured by the accident, he will, supposing he has no other wife at the time, offer her the consolation of marriage with himself.

He regards the life of bird and beast as no less sacred than that of human beings. Should he inadvertently break a fowl or pig he will convey it to the nearest veterinary surgeon and have the broken limb set or amputated as the injury may require. In the event of death or permanent damage, he will seek out the owner of the dumb animal, and refund him fourfold.

To be on the safe side with respect to the legal limit, the Perfect Automobilist confines himself to a speed of ten miles per hour. He will even dismount at the top of a steep descent, so as to lessen the impetus due to the force of gravity.

If he is compelled by the nature of his mission to exceed the legal limit (as when hurrying, for instance, to fetch a doctor in a matter of life or death, or to inform the Government of the landing of a hostile force) he is anxious not to shirk the penalty. He will, therefore, send on a swift messenger to warn the police to be on the lookout for him; and if he fails to run into any trap he will, on returning, report himself at all the police-stations on his route, or communicate by post with the constabularies of the various counties through which he may have passed.

At the back of his motor he carries a watering-cart attachment for the laying of dust before it has time to be raised.

Lest the noise of his motor should be a cause of distraction he slows down when passing military bands, barrel organs, churches (during the hours of worship), the Houses of Parliament (while sitting), motor-buses, the Stock Exchange, and open-air meetings of the unemployed.

If he meets a restive horse he will turn back and go down a side road and wait till it has passed. If all the side roads are occupied by restive horses he will go back home; and if the way home is similarly barred he will turn into a field.

He encourages his motor to break down frequently; because this spectacle affords an innocent diversion to many whose existence would otherwise be colourless.

It is his greatest joy to give a timely lift to weary pedestrians, such as tramps, postmen, sweeps, and police-trap detectives; even though, the car being already full, he is himself compelled to get out and do the last fifty or sixty miles on foot.

He declines to wear goggles because they conceal the natural benevolence of the human eye divine, which he regards as the window of the soul; also (and for the same reason he never wears a fur overcoat) because they accentuate class distinctions.

Finally--on this very ground--the Perfect Automobilist will sell all his motor-stud and give the proceeds to found an almshouse for retired socialists.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Obliging Horseman_ (_of riverside breeding_). "Ave a tow up, miss?"

* * * * *

Illustration: _Cyclist._ "Why can't you look where you're going?"

_Motorist._ "How the dickens could I when I didn't know!"

* * * * *

Illustration: _Middle-aged Novice._ "I'm just off for a tour in the country--'biking' all the way. It'll be four weeks before I'm back in my flat again."

_Candid Friend._ "Ah! Bet it won't be four hours before you're flat on your back again!"

* * * * *

THE LAST RECORD

(_The Wail of a Wiped-out Wheelman_)

AIR--"_The Lost Chord_"

Reading one day in our "Organ,"
I was happy and quite at ease.
A band was playing the "_Lost Chord_,"
Outside--in three several keys.
But _I_ cared not how they were playing,
Those puffing Teutonic men;
For I'd "cut the record" at cycling,
And was ten-mile champion then!

It flooded my cheeks with crimson,
The praise of my pluck and calm;
Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum"
With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm.
But my joy soon turned into sorrow,
My calm into mental strife;
For my record was "cut" on the morrow,
And it cut _me_, like a knife.
A fellow had done the distance
In the tenth of a second less!
And henceforth my name in silence
Was dropt by the Cycling Press.

I have sought--but I seek it vainly--
With that record again to shine,
Midst crack names in our Cycling Organ,
But they never mention mine.
It may be some day at the Oval
I may cut that record again,
But at present the Cups are given
To better--_or_ luckier--men!

* * * * *

Illustration: THE MOTOR-BATH

_Nurse._ "Oh, baby, look at the diver!"

* * * * *

A SONG OF THE ROAD

Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car,
Just to tell us where you are,
While about the streets you fly
Like a comet in the sky.

When the blazing sun is "off,"
When the fog breeds wheeze and cough,
Round the corners as you scour
With your dozen miles an hour--

Then the traveller in the dark,
Growling some profane remark,
Would not know which way to go
While you're rushing to and fro.

On our fears, then, as you gloat
(Ours who neither "bike" nor "mote"),
Just to tell us where you are--
Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car.

* * * * *

"Motor Body."--"One man can change from a tonneau to a landaulette, shooting brake, or racing car in two minutes, and, when fixed, cannot be told from ANY fixed body."--_Advt. in the_ "_Autocar._"

The disguise would certainly deceive one's nearest relations, but as likely as not one's dog would come up and give the whole show away by licking the sparking plug.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Chauffeur._ "Pardon, monsieur. This way, conducts she straight to Hele?"

_Major Chili Pepper_ (_a rabid anti-motorist and slightly deaf_). "Certainly it will, sir if you continue to drive on the wrong side of the road!"

* * * * *

Illustration: "FACILIS

_Bikist_ (_gaily_). "Here we go down! down! down! down!"

* * *

Illustration: DESCENSUS!"

_The same_ (_very much down_). "Never again with _you_, my bikey!"

* * * * *

Should Motors Carry Maxims?--Under the title "Murderous Magistrate," the _Daily Mail_ printed some observations made by a barrister who reproves Canon Greenwell for remarking from the Durham County Bench that if a few motorists were shot no great harm would be done. The same paper subsequently published an article headed, "Maxims for Motorists." Retaliation in kind is natural, and a maxim is an excellent retort to a canon. But why abuse the canon first?

* * * * *

So many accidents have occurred lately through the ignition of petrol that a wealthy motorist, we hear, is making arrangements for his car to be followed, wherever it may go, by a fully-equipped fire-engine, and, if this example be followed widely, our roads will become more interesting than ever.

* * * * *

Are there motor-cars in the celestial regions? Professor Schaer, of Geneva, has discovered what _he_ describes as a new comet plunging due south at a rate of almost 8 degrees a day, and careering across the Milky Way regardless of all other traffic.

* * * * *

Illustration: OUR ELECTION--POLLING DAY

_Energetic Committeeman._ "It's all right. Drive on! He's voted!"

* * * * *

THE MOTOCRAT

I am he: goggled and unashamed. Furred also am I, stop-watched and horse-powerful. Millions admit my sway--on both sides of the road. The Plutocrat has money: I have motors. The Democrat has the rates; so have I--two--one for use and one for County Courts. The Autocrat is dead, but I--I increase and multiply. I have taken his place.

I blow my horn and the people scatter. I stand still and everything trembles. I move and kill dogs. I skid and chickens die. I pass swiftly from place to place, and horses bolt in dust storms which cover the land. I make the dust storms. For I am Omnipotent; I make everything. I make dust, I make smell, I make noise. And I go forward, ever forward, and pass through or over almost everything. "Over or Through" is my motto.

The roads were made for me; years ago they were made. Wise rulers saw me coming and made roads. Now that I am come, they go on making roads--making them up. For I break things. Roads I break and Rules of the Road. Statutory limits were made for me. I break them. I break the dull silence of the country. Sometimes I break down, and thousands flock round me, so that I dislocate the traffic. But I _am_ the Traffic.

I am I and She is She--the rest get out of the way. Truly, the hand which rules the motor rocks the world.

* * * * *

MOTOR CAR-ACTERISTICS

(_By an Old Whip_)

Jerking and jolting,
Bursting and bolting,
Smelling and steaming,
Shrieking and screaming,
Snorting and shaking,
Quivering, quaking,
Skidding and slipping,
Twisting and tripping,
Bumping and bounding,
Puffing and pounding,
Rolling and rumbling,
Thumping and tumbling.
Such I've a notion,
Motor-car motion.

* * * * *

Illustration: ADDING INSULT TO INJURY

_Cyclist_ (_to Foxhunter, thrown out_), "Oi say, Squoire, 'ave you seen the 'ounds?"

* * * * *

Illustration: TRUE PHILOSOPHY.--_Ploughman._ "Ah, things be different like wi' them an' us. They've got a trap wi' no 'osses, an' we 'm got 'osses wi' no trap."

* * * * *

Illustration: THE RECKLESS ONE

_Wife of Injured Cyclist_ (_who, having found considerable difficulty in getting on his bicycle, and none whatever in coming off, has never ventured to attempt more than three miles in the hour_). "Well, I do believe he's had a lesson at last! I warned him about 'scorching.' I said to him, what have _you_ got to do with the 'record'?"

* * * * *

Illustration: AN INOPPORTUNE TIME

Jones, while motoring to town to fulfil an important engagement, has the misfortune to get stuck up on the road, and has sent his chauffeur to the village for assistance. In the meantime several village children gather around and sing, "God rest you, merry gentleman, let nothing you dismay," etc.

* * * * *

The Great Motor Mystery.--At Lancaster two motorists were fined, according to the _Manchester Evening News_, "for driving a motor-car over a trap near Carnforth, at twenty-nine and thirty-four miles per hour respectively." We are of the opinion that the action of the second gentleman in driving at so high a speed over the poor trap when it was already down was not quite in accordance with the best traditions of English sport.

* * * * *

Illustration: BREAKING IT GENTLY.--

_Passer-by._ "Is that your pork down there on the road, guv'nor?"

_Farmer._ "Pork! What d'ye mean? There's a pig o' mine out there."

_Passer-by._ "Ah, but there's a motor-car just been by."

* * * * *

Illustration: EXCLUSIVE.--

_Fair Driver._ "Will you stand by the pony for a few minutes, my good man?"

_The Good Man._ "Pony, mum? No, I'm a motor-minder, I am. 'Ere, Bill! 'Orse."

* * * * *

CRAZY TALES

The Duchess of Pomposet was writhing, poor thing, on the horns of a dilemma. Painful position, very. She was the greatest of great ladies, full of fire and fashion, and with a purple blush (she was born that colour) flung bangly arms round the neck of her lord and master. The unfortunate man was a shocking sufferer, having a bad unearned increment, and enduring constant pain on account of his back being broader than his views.

"Pomposet," she cried, resolutely. "Duky darling!"

(When first married she had ventured to apostrophise him as "ducky," but His Grace thought it _infra dig._, and they compromised by omitting the vulgar "c.")

"Duky," she said, raising pale distinguished eyes to a Chippendale mirror, "I have made up my mind."

"Don't," expostulated the trembling peer. "You are so rash!"

"What is more, I have made up yours."

"To make up the mind of an English Duke," he remarked, with dignity, "requires no ordinary intellect; yet I believe with your feminine hydraulics you are capable of anything, Jane."

(That this aristocratic rib of his rib should have been named plain Jane was a chronic sorrow.)

"Don't keep me in suspense," he continued; "in fact, to descend to a colloquialism, I insist on Your Grace letting the cat out of the bag with the least possible delay."

"As you will," she replied. "Your blood be on your own coronet. Prepare for a shock--a revelation. I have fallen! Not once--but many times."

"Wretched woman!--I beg pardon!--wretched Grande Dame! call upon Debrett to cover you!"

"I am madly in love with----"

"By my taffeta and ermine, I swear----"

"Peace, peace!" said Jane. "Compose yourself, ducky--that is Plantagenet. Forgive the slip. I am agitated. My mind runs on slips."

The Duke groaned.

"Horrid, awful slips!"

With a countenance of alabaster he tore at his sandy top-knot.

"I have deceived you. I admit it. Stooped to folly."

A supercilious cry rent the air as the Duke staggered on his patrician limbs.

With womanly impulse--flinging caste to the winds--Jane caught the majestic form to her palpitating alpaca, and, watering his beloved features with Duchessy drops, cried in passionate accents, "My King! My Sensitive Plant! Heavens! It's his unlucky back! Be calm, Plantagenet. I have--been--learning--to--_bike_! There! On the sly!"

The Duke flapped a reviving toe, and squeezed the august fingers.

"I am madly enamoured of--my machine."

The peer smoothed a ruffled top-knot with ineffable grace.

"Likewise am determined _you_ shall take lessons. Now it is no use, duky. I mean to be tender but firm with you."

The Potentate gave a stertorous chortle, and, stretching out his arms, fell in a strawberry-leaf swoon on the parquet floor, his ducal head on the lap of his adored Jane.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE FREEMASONRY OF THE WHEEL.--"Rippin' wevver fer hus ciciklin' chaps, ain't it?"

* * * * *

Illustration: BROTHERS IN ADVERSITY

_Farmer._ "Pull up, you fool! The mare's bolting!"

_Motorist._ "So's the car!"

* * * * *

Illustration: QUITE RESPECTFUL

_Fair Cyclist._ "Is that the incumbent of this parish?"

_Parishioner._ "Well, 'e's the _Vicar_. But, wotever some of us thinks, we never calls 'im a _hencumbrance_!"

* * * * *

Illustration:

_Gipsy Fortune-teller_ (_seriously_). "Let me warn you. Somebody's going to cross your path."

_Motorist._ "Don't you think you'd better warn the other chap?"

* * * * *

THE SCORCHER

(_After William Watson_)

I do not, in the crowded street
Of cab and "'bus" and mire,
Nor in the country lane so sweet,
Hope to escape thy tyre.

One boon, oh, scorcher, I implore,
With one petition kneel,
At least abuse me not before
Thou break me on thy wheel.

* * * * *

Illustration: A motorist wishes to point out the very grave danger this balloon-scorching may become, and suggests a speed limit be made before things go too far.

* * * * *

THE MUGGLETON MOTOR-CAR; OR, THE WELLERS ON WHEELS

_A Pickwickian Fragment Up-to-date_

As light as fairies, if not altogether as brisk as bees, did the four Pickwickian shades assemble on a winter morning in the year of grace, 1896. Christmas was nigh at hand, in all its _fin-de-siècle_ inwardness; it was the season of pictorial too-previousness and artistic anticipation, of plethoric periodicals, all shocker-sensationalism sandwiched with startling advertisements; of cynical new-humour and flamboyantly sentimental chromo-lithography.

But we are so taken up by the genial delights of the New Christmas that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his phantom friends waiting in the cold on the chilly outside of the Muggleton Motor-car, which they had just mounted, well wrapped up in antiquated great coats, shawls, and comforters.

Mr. Weller, Senior, had, all unconsciously, brought his well-loved whip with him, and was greatly embarrassed thereby.

"Votever shall I do vith it, Sammy?" he whispered, hoarsely.

"Purtend it's a new, patent, jointless fishing-rod, guv'nor," rejoined Sam, in a Stygian aside. "Nobody 'ere'll 'ave the slightest notion vot it really is."

"When are they--eh--going to--ahem--put the horses to?" murmured Mr. Pickwick, emerging from his coat collar, and looking about him with great perplexity.

"'_Osses?_" cried the coachman, turning round upon Mr. Pickwick, with sharp suspicion in his eye. "'_Osses?_ d'ye say. Oh, who are you a-gettin' at?"

Mr. Pickwick withdrew promptly into his coat-collar.

The irrepressible Sam came immediately to the aid of his beloved master, whom he would never see snubbed if _he_ knew it.

"There's vheels vithin vheels, as the bicyclist said vhen he vos pitched head foremost into the vatchmaker's vinder," remarked Mr. Weller, Junior, with the air of a Solomon in smalls. "But vot sort of a vheel do you call that thing in front of you, and vot's its pertikler objeck? a top of a coach instead o' under it?"

"This yer wheel means Revolution," said the driver.

"It do, Samivel, it do," interjected his father dolorously. "And in my opinion it's a worse Revolution than that there French one itself. A coach vithout 'osses, vheels instead of vheelers, and a driver vithout a vhip! Oh Sammy, Sammy, to think it should come to _this_!!!"

The driver--if it be not desecration to a noble old name so to designate him--gave a turn to his wheel and the autocar started. Mr. Winkle, who sat at the extreme edge, waggled his shadowy legs forlornly in the air; Mr. Snodgrass, who sat next to him, snorted lugubriously; Mr. Tupman turned paler than even a Stygian shade has a right to do. Mr. Pickwick took off his glasses and wiped them furtively.

"Sam," he whispered hysterically in the ear of his faithful servitor, "Sam, this is dreadful! A--ahem!--vehicle with no visible means of propulsion pounding along like--eh--Saint Denis without his head, is more uncanny than Charon's boat."

"Let's get down, Sammy, let's get down at once," groaned Mr. Weller the elder. "I can't stand it, Samivel, I really can't. Think o' the poor 'osses, Sammy, think o' the poor 'osses as ain't there, and vot they must feel to find theirselves sooperseeded by a hugly vheel and a pennorth o' peteroleum, &c.!"

"Hold on, old Nobs!" cried the son, with frank filial sympathy. "Think of the guv'nor, father, and vait for the first stoppage. Never again vith the Muggleton Motor! Vhy, it vorse than a hortomatic vheelbarrow, ain't it, Mr. Pickwick?"

"Ah, Sammy," assented Mr. Weller, Senior, hugging his whip, affectionately. "Vorse even than vidders, Sammy, the red-nosed shepherd, or the Mulberry One hisself!"

* * * * *

A bear in a motor-car attracted much attention in the City last week. It had four legs this time.

* * * * *

The _Motor Car_ declares, on high medical authority, that motoring is a cure for insanity. We would therefore recommend several motorists we know to persevere.

* * * * *

Illustration: GENTLE SATIRE--"I say, Bill, look 'ere! 'Ere's a old cove out record-breaking!"

* * * * *

Illustration: MOTOR MANIA.--

_The Poet_ (_deprecatingly_). "They say she gives more attention to her motor-cars than to her children."

_The Butterfly._ "Of course. How absurd you are! Motor-cars require more attention than children."

* * * * *

Illustration: SOUR GRAPES

_First Scorcher._ "Call _that_ exercise?"

_Second Scorcher._ "No. _I_ call it sitting in a draught!"

* * * * *

Illustration: NOT TO BE CAUGHT.--

_Motorist_ (_whose motor has thrown elderly villager into horse-pond_). "Come along, my man, I'll take you home to get dry."

_Elderly Villager._ "No, yer don't. I've got yer number, and 'ere I stays till a hindependent witness comes along!"

* * * * *

Illustration: _Pedestrian._ "I hear Brown has taken to cycling, and is very enthusiastic about it!"

_Cyclist._ "Enthusiastic! Not a bit of it. Why, he never rides before breakfast!"

* * * * *

Illustration: GROTESQUERIES

_Words wanted to express feelings_

When your motor refuses to move, twenty miles from the nearest town.

* * * * *

Illustration: SO INCONSIDERATE

"Jove! Might have killed us! I must have a wire screen fixed up."

* * * * *

BROWNING ON THE ROAD.

Round the bend of a sudden came Z 1 3,
And I shot into his front wheel's rim;
And straight was a fine of gold for him,
And the need of a brand-new bike for me.

* * * * *

Illustration: "IF DOUGHTY DEEDS MY LADY PLEASE"

"Mamma! Mr. White says he is longing to give you your first bicycle lesson!"

* * * * *

A WISH

(_By a Wild Wheelman. A long way after Rogers_)

Mine be a "scorch" without a spill,
A loud "bike" bell to please mine ear;
A chance to maim, if not to kill,
Pedestrian parties pottering near.

My holloa, e'er my prey I catch,
Shall raise wild terror in each breast;
If luck or skill that prey shall snatch
From my wild wheel, the shock will test.

On to the bike beside my porch
I'll spring, like falcon on its prey,
And Lucy, on _her_ wheel shall "scorch,"
And "coast" with me the livelong day.

To make old women's marrow freeze
Is the best sport the bike has given.
To chase them as they puff and wheeze,
On rubber tyre--by Jove, 'tis heaven!

* * * * *

THE BIKER BIKED

Henpeck'd he was. He learnt to bike.
"Now I can go just where I like,"
He chuckled to himself. But she
Had learnt to bike as well as he,
And, what was more, had bought a new
Machine to sweetly carry two.
Ever together now they go,
He sighing, "This is wheel _and_ woe."

* * * * *

Illustration: "WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS," &c.

_He_ (_alarmed by the erratic steering_). "Er--and have you driven much?"

_She_ (_quite pleased with herself_). "Oh, no--this is only my second attempt. But then, you see, I have been used to a _bicycle_ for years!"

* * * * *

Illustration: MISUNDERSTOOD

_Donald_ (_who has picked up fair cyclist's handkerchief_). "Hi! Woman! Woman!"

_Fair Cyclist_ (_indignantly_). "'Woman'! How _dare_ you----"

_Donald_ (_out of breath_). "I beg your pardon, sir! I thought you was a woman. I didna see your _trews_."

* * * * *

Automobile dust-carts, says the _Matin_, are to be used in Paris henceforth. We had thought every motor-car was this.

* * * * *

Illustration: ENGLISH DICTIONARY ILLUSTRATED.--"Coincidence." The falling or meeting of two or more lines or bodies at the same point.

* * * * *

REFLECTIONS OF A MOTOR-RACER

Two A.M.! Time to get up, if I'm to be ready for the great Paris-Berlin race at 3.30. Feel very cold and sleepy. Pitch dark morning, of course. Moon been down hours. Must get into clothes, I suppose. Oilskins feel very clammy and heavy at this hour in the morning. Button up tunic and tuck trousers into top boots. Put on peaked cap and fasten veil tightly over face, after covering eyes with iron goggles and protecting mouth with respirator. Wind woollen muffler round neck and case hands in thick dogskin gloves with gauntlets. Look like Nansen going to discover North Pole. Or Tweedledum about to join battle with Tweedledee. Effect on the whole unpleasing.

Great crowds to see us off. Nearly ran over several in effort to reach starting post. Very careless. People ought not to get in the way on these occasions. Noise appalling. Cheers, snatches of _Marseillaise_, snorts of motors, curses of competitors, cries of bystanders knocked down by enthusiastic _chauffeurs_, shouts of _gendarmes_ clearing the course. Spectators seem to find glare of acetylene lamps very confusing. Several more or less injured through not getting out of the way sufficiently quickly. At last the flag drops. We are off.

Pull lever, and car leaps forward. Wonder if wiser to start full speed or begin gently? Decide on latter. Result, nearly blinded by dust of competitors in front, and suffocated by stench of petroleum. Fellow just ahead particularly objectionable in both respects. Decide to quicken up and pass him. Can't see a foot before me on account of his dust. Suddenly run into the stern of his car. Apologise. Can't I look where I'm going? Of course I can. Not my fault at all. Surly fellow! Proceed to go slower. Fellow behind runs into _me_. Confound him, can't he be more careful? Says he couldn't see me. Idiot!

Put on speed again. Car in front just visible through haze of dust. Hear distant crash. Confound the man, he's run into a dray! Just time to swerve to the right, and miss wreck of his car by an inch. Clumsy fellow, blocking my road in that way. At last clear space before me. Go up with a rush. Wind whistles past my ears. Glorious! What's that? Run over an old woman? Very annoying. Almost upset my car. Awkward for next chap. Body right across the road. Spill him to a certainty.

Morning growing light, but dust thicker than ever. Scarcely see a yard in front of me. Must trust to luck. Fortunately road pretty straight here. Just missed big tree. Collided with small one. Knocked it over like a ninepin. Lucky I was going so fast. Car uninjured, but tree done for. Man in car just ahead very much in my way. Shout to him to get out of the light. Turns round and grins malevolently. Movement fatal. He forgets to steer and goes crash into ditch. What's that he says? Help? Silly fellow, does he think I can stop at this pace? Curious how ignorant people seem to be of simplest mechanical laws.

Magnificent piece of road here. Nothing in sight but a dog. Run over it. Put on full speed. Seventy miles an hour at least. Can no longer see or hear anything. Trees, villages, fields rush by in lightning succession. Fancy a child is knocked down. Am vaguely conscious of upsetting old gentleman in gig. Seem to notice a bump on part of car, indicating that it has passed over prostrate fellow citizen, but not sure. Sensation most exhilarating. Immolate another child. Really most careless of parents leaving children loose like this in the country. Some day there will be an accident. Might have punctured my tyre.

Chap in front of me comes in sight. Catching him up fast. He puts on full speed. Still gaining on him. Pace terrific. Sudden flash just ahead, followed by loud explosion. Fellow's benzine reservoir blown up apparently. Pass over smoking ruins of car. Driver nowhere to be seen. Probably lying in neighbouring field. That puts _him_ out of the race.

Eh? What's that? Aix in sight? Gallop, says Browning. Better not, perhaps. Road ahead crowded with spectators. Great temptation to charge through them in style. Mightn't be popular, though. Slow down to fifteen miles an hour, and enter town amid frantic cheering. Most interesting. Wonderfully few casualties. Dismount at door of hotel dusty but triumphant.

* * * * *

Illustration: _First Cyclist_ (_cross-eyed_). "Why the dickens don't you look where you're going?"

_Second Cyclist_ (_cross-eyed_). "Why don't you go where you're looking?"

* * * * *

Illustration: QUITE IMPOSSIBLE.--_Motorist._ "What! Exceeding the legal limit? _Do_ we look as if we would do such a thing?"

* * * * *

Illustration: THE INTERPRETATION OF SIGNS

_Custodian._ "This 'ere's a private road, miss! Didn't yer see the notice-board at the gate, sayin' 'No thoroughfare'?"

_Placida._ "Oh yes, of course. Why, that's how I knew there was a way through!"

* * * * *

Illustration: AFTER THE ACCIDENT

"Toujours la politesse."

* * * * *

Illustration: QUITE A LITTLE HOLIDAY

_Cottager._ "What's wrong, Biker? Have you had a spill?"

_Biker._ "Oh, no. I'm having a rest!"

* * * * *

Illustration: WHATS IN A NAME?

_Old Gent_ (_lately bitten with the craze_). "And that confounded man sold me the thing for a safety!"

* * * * *

_Motoring Illustrated_ suggests the institution of a Motor Museum. If we were sure that most of the motor omnibuses at present in our streets would find their way there, we would gladly subscribe.

* * * * *

PROTECTION AGAINST MOTOR-CARS

Sir,--I recently read with interest a letter in the _Times_ from "A Cyclist since 1868." In it he announced his intention of carrying a tail-light in order to avoid being run into from behind. The idea is admirable, and my wife and I, as Pedestrians since 1826 and 1823 respectively, propose to wear two lamps each in future, a white and a red.

We are, however, a little exercised to know whether we should carry the white in front and the red behind, or _vice versâ_. For in walking along the right side of a road we shall appear on the wrong side to an approaching motor-car. Would it not therefore be better for us to have the tail-light in front. Your most humble and obedient servant,

LUX PRÆPOSTERA.

P.S.--Would such an arrangement make us "carriages" in the eye of the law? At present we appear to be merely a sub-division of the class "unlighted objects."

* * * * *

CURE FOR MOTOR-SCORCHERS (_suggested as being even more humane than the proposal of_ Sir R. Payne-Gallwey).--Give them Automobile Beans!

* * * * *

Illustration: SLOW AND SURE

_John._ "I've noticed, miss, as when you 'as a motor, you catches a train, not _the_ train!"

* * * * *

HOW THE MATCH CAME OFF

A HARMONY ON WHEELS

(_Miss Angelica has challenged Mr. Wotherspoon to a race on the Queen's highway._)

_Fytte 1._

_Mr. W._ Fine start!
(Faint heart!)

_Miss A._ Horrid hill!
(Feeling ill!)

_Fytte 2._

_Mr. W._ Going strong!
Come along!

_Fytte 3._

_Miss A._ Road quite even!
Perfect heaven!

_Fytte 4._

_Mr. W._ Goal in view!
Running true!

_Miss A._ Make it faster!
Spur your caster!

_Fytte 5._

_Mr. W._ Fairly done!

_Miss A._ Match is won!

[_They dismount. Pause._

_Mr. W._ What! Confess!

_Miss A._ Well then--yes!

* * * * *

Illustration: _Motor Fiend._ "Why don't you get out of the way?"

_Victim._ "_What!_ Are you coming back?"

* * * * *

MOTOROBESITY

(_A Forecast_)

In the spring of 1913 St. John Skinner came back from Africa, after spending nine or ten years somewhere near the Zambesi. He travelled up to Waterloo by the electric train, and the three very stout men who were in the same first-class compartment seemed to look at him with surprise. On arriving at his hotel he pushed his way through a crowd of fat persons in the hall. Then he changed his clothes, and went round to his Club to dine.

The dining-room was filled with members of extraordinary obesity, all eating heartily. In the fat features of one of them he thought he recognised a once familiar face. "Round," said he, "how are you?"

The stout man stopped eating, and gazed at him anxiously. "Why," he murmured, after a while, in the soft voice that comes from folds of fat, "it must be Skinner. My dear fellow, what is the matter with you? Have you had a fever?"

"I'm all right," answered the other; "what makes you think I've been ill?"

"Ill, man!" said Round, "why you've wasted away to nothing. You're a perfect skeleton."

"If it's a question of bulk," remarked Skinner, "I'm much more surprised. You've grown so stout, every fellow in the Club seems so stout, everyone I've seen is as fat as--as--as you are."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Round, "you don't mean to say I've been putting on more flesh? I'm the light weight of the Club. I only weigh sixteen stone. No, no, you're chaffing, or you judge by your own figure."

"Not a bit," said the other; "you and I used to weigh about the same. What on earth has happened to you all?"

"Well," said Round, "perhaps you're right. It's very much what the doctors say. It's the fashionable complaint, motorobesity. Sit down, and dine with me, and I'll tell you what the idea is. You see, it's like this. For ten years or so everybody who could afford a motor of some sort has had one. We've all had one. Not to have a motor has been simply ridiculous, if not disreputable. So everybody has ridden about all day in the fresh air, never had any exercise, and got an enormous appetite. Besides, in the summer we've always been drinking beer to wash down the dust, and in the winter soup, or spirits, or something to warm us. My dear fellow, you can't think what an appetite motoring gives you. I had an enormous steak for my lunch at Winchester to-day, and a great lump of plum cake with my tea at Aldershot, and my aunt, the General's wife, made me bring a bag of biscuits to eat on the way up, and yet I'm so hungry now that I should feel quite uncomfortable if the thirst those biscuits, and the dust, gave me didn't make me almost forget it. I suppose everyone is really getting fat. One notices it when one does happen to see a thin fellow like you. Why, in all the Clubs they've had to have new arm-chairs, because the old ones were too narrow. However, I've talked enough about motoring. So glad to see you again, old chap. Of course you'll get a motor as soon as possible."

"Well," said Skinner, "I rather think I shall buy a horse."

"My dear fellow," cried Round, "what an idea! Horse-riding is such awfully bad form. Besides, you can't go any pace. Look at me. I wouldn't get on a horse, and be shaken to pieces."

"I should think not," said Skinner, "but I think I should prefer that to motorobesity."

* * * * *

An advertisement in _The Motor_ quotes the testimony of a gentleman from Moreton-in-the-Marsh, who states that he has run a certain car "nearly 412,500 miles in four months, and is more than pleased with it." As this works out (on a basis of twenty-four hours' running _per diem_) at about 143 miles per hour, we have pleasure in asking what the police are doing in Moreton-in-the-Marsh and its vicinity.

* * * * *

Noticing an advertisement of a book entitled "The Complete Motorist," an angry opponent of the new method of locomotion writes to suggest that the companion volume, "The Complete Pedestrian," had better be written at once before it becomes impossible to find an entire specimen.

* * * * *

MAXIM FOR CYCLISTS.--"_Try_-cycle before you _Buy_-cycle."

* * * * *

Illustration: Motorist (a novice) has been giving chairman of local urban council a practical demonstration of the ease with which a motor-car can be controlled when travelling at a high speed.

* * * * *

Illustration: LOVE'S ENDURANCE

_Miss Dolly_ (_to her fiancé_). "Oh, Jack, this _is_ delightful! If you'll only keep up the pace, I'm sure I shall soon gain confidence!"

[_Poor Jack has already run a mile or more, and is very short of
condition._

* * * * *

Illustration: TU QUOQUE.--_Cyclist_ (_a beginner who has just collided with freshly-painted fence_). "Confound your filthy paint! Now, just look at my coat!" _Painter._ "'Ang yer bloomin' coat! _'Ow about my paint?_"

* * * * *

Illustration: NOTE TO THE SUPERSTITIOUS

It is considered lucky for a black cat to cross your path.

* * * * *

Illustration: WAITING FOR

_A Study of Rural_

"W'y, I remembers the time w'en I'd 'ave stopped _that_ for furious drivin', an' I reckon it's only goin' about a paltry fifteen mile an hour!"

* * *

Illustration: BIGGER GAME

_Police Methods_

"_Ar!_ Now them cyclists is puttin' on a fairish pace! Summat about twenty mile an hour, I s'pose. But 'tain't no business o' mine. _I'm_ 'ere to stop _motor-caws_. Wot ho!"

* * * * *

LOVE IN A CAR

["I have personal knowledge of marriages resulting from motor-car
courtships."--The HON. C. S. ROLLS.--_Daily Express._]

When Reginald asked me to drive in his car
I knew what it meant for us both,
For peril to love-making offers no bar,
But fosters the plighting of troth.
To the tender occasion I hastened to rise,
So bought a new frock on the strength of it,
Some china-blue chiffon--to go with my eyes--
And wrapped up my head with a length of it.

"Get in," said my lover, "as quick as you can!"
He wore a black smear on his face,
And held out the hand of a rough artisan
To pilot me into my place.
Like the engine my frock somehow seemed to mis-fire,
For Reginald's manner was querulous,
But after some fuss with the near hind-wheel tyre
We were off at a pace that was perilous.

"There's Brown just behind, on his second-hand brute,
He thinks it can move, silly ass!"
Said Reggie with venom, "Ha! Ha! let him hoot,
I'll give him some trouble to pass."
My service thenceforth was by Reggie confined
(He showed small compunction in suing it)
To turning to see how far Brown was behind,
But not to let Brown see me doing it.

Brown passed us. We dined off his dust for a league--
It really was very poor fun--
Till, our car showed symptoms of heat and fatigue,
Reggie had to admit he was done.
To my soft consolation scant heed did he pay,
But with taps was continually juggling,
And his words, "Will you keep your dress further away?"
Put a stop to this incipient smuggling.

"He'd never have passed me alone," Reggie sighed,
"The car's extra heavy with you."
"Why ask me to come?" I remarked. He replied,
"I thought she'd go better with two."
When I touched other topics, forbearingly meek,
From his goggles the lightnings came scattering,
"What chance do you give me of placing this squeak,"
He hissed, "when you keep up that chattering?"

At that, I insisted on being set down
And returning to London by train,
And I vowed fifty times on my way back to town
That I never would see him again.
Next week he appeared and implored me to wed,
With a fondly adoring humility.
"The car stands between us," I rigidly said.
"I've sold it!" he cried with agility.

His temples were sunken, enfeebled his frame,
There was white in the curls on his crest;
When he spoke of our ride in a whisper of shame
I flew to my home on his breast.
By running sedately I'm certain that Love
To such passion would never have carried us,
Which settles the truth of the legend above--
It was really the motor-car married us.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Miller_ (_looking after cyclist, who has a slight touch of motor mania_). "Well, to be sure! There do be some main ignorant chaps out o' London. 'E comes 'ere askin' me 'ow many 'orse power the old mill ad got."

* * * * *

Illustration:

_Cyclist_ (_whose tyre has become deflated_). "Have you such a thing as a pump?"

_Yokel._ "'Ees, miss, there's one i' the yard."

_Cyclist._ "I should be much obliged if you would let me use it."

_Yokel._ "That depends 'ow much you want. Watter be main scarce wi' us this year! Oi'll ask feyther."

* * * * *

Illustration: _Smart Girl_ (_to keen motorist_). "My sister has bought a beautiful motor-car." _Keen Motorist._ "Really! What kind?" _Smart Girl._ "Oh, a lovely sage green, to go with her frocks."

* * * * *

Illustration: _Mrs. Binks_ (_who has lost control of her machine_). "Oh, oh, Harry! Please get into a bank soon. I must have something soft to fall on!"

* * * * *

Illustration: _Miss Heavytopp._ "I'm afraid I'm giving you a lot of bother, but then, it's only my _first_ lesson!"

_Exhausted Instructor_ (_sotto voce_). "I only hope it won't be my _last_!"

* * * * *

Illustration: SORROWS OF A "CHAUFFEUR"

_Ancient Dame._ "What d'ye say? They call he a 'shuvver,' do they? I see. They put he to walk behind and shove 'em up the hills, I reckon."

* * * * *

A CYCLE OF CATHAY.--_The Yorkshire Evening Post_, in reporting the case of a motor-cyclist charged with travelling at excessive speed on the highway at Selby, represents a police-sergeant as stating that "he timed defendant over a distance of 633 years, which was covered in 64 secs." The contention of the defendant that he had been "very imperfectly timed" has an air of captiousness.

* * * * *

"Many roads in the district are unfit for motorists," is the report of the Tadcaster surveyor to his council. We understand the inhabitants have resolved to leave well alone.

* * * * *

At a meeting of the Four Wheeler's Association, a speaker boasted, with some justification, that a charge which is brought every day against drivers of motor-cars has never been brought against members of their Association, namely, that of driving at an excessive speed.

* * * * *

Rumour is again busy with the promised appearance of a motor-bus which is to be so quiet that you will not know that there is one on the road until you have been run over.

* * * * *

Illustration: AN UNPARDONABLE MISTAKE.--_Short-sighted Old Lady._ "Porter!"

* * * * *

Illustration: NOSCE TEIPSUM.--_Lady Cyclist_ (_touring in North Holland_). "What a ridiculous costume!"

* * * * *

Illustration: _Sporting Constable_ (_with stop-watch--on "police trap" duty, running excitedly out from his ambush, to motorist just nearing the finish of the measured furlong_). "For 'evin's sake, guv'nor, let 'er rip, and ye'll do the 220 in seven and a 'arf!"

* * * * *

MY MOTOR CAP

[Motor-caps, we are informed, have created such a vogue in the
Provinces, that ladies, women and factory girls may be seen
wearing them on every occasion, though unconnected, in other
respects, with modern methods of locomotion.]

A motor car I shall never afford
With a gay vermilion bonnet,
Of course I _might_ happen to marry a lord,
But it's no good counting on it.
I have never reclined on the seat behind,
And hurtled across the map,
But my days are blest with a mind at rest,
For I wear a motor cap.

I am done with Gainsborough, straw and toque,
My dresses are bound with leather,
I turn up my collar like auto-folk,
And stride through the pitiless weather;
With a pound of scrag in an old string bag,
In a tram with a child on my lap,
Wherever I go, to shop or a show,
I wear a motor cap.

I don't know a silencer from a clutch,
A sparking-plug from a bearing,
But no one, I think, is in closer touch
With the caps the women are wearing;
I'm _au fait_ with the trim of the tailor-made brim,
The crown and machine-stitched strap;
Though I've neither the motor, the sable-lined coat, nor
The goggles--I wear the cap.

* * * * *

Illustration: No, this isn't a collection of tubercular microbes escaping from the congress; but merely the Montgomery-Smiths in their motor-car, enjoying the beauties of the country.

* * * * *

LINES BY A REJECTED AND DEJECTED CYCLIST

You do not at this juncture
Feel, as I, the dreadful smart,
And you scorn the cruel puncture
Of the tyre of my heart!
But mayhap, at some Life-turning,
When the wheel has run untrue,
You will know why I was burning,
And was scorched alone, by you!

* * * * *

Illustration: FINIS

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE