It is pleasant to turn from the smoke and turmoil of the city to the
fresh air and quiet of the country.
To the man who spends most of his time in the heart of London, going
into the country--even for a short distance--is like passing into the
fields of Elysium. This was, at all events, the opinion of Stephen
Welland; and Stephen must have been a good judge, for he tried the
change frequently, being exceedingly fond of bicycling, and occasionally
taking what he termed long spins on that remarkable instrument.
One morning, early in the summer-time, young Welland, (he was only
eighteen), mounted his iron horse in the neighbourhood of Kensington,
and glided away at a leisurely pace through the crowded streets.
Arrived in the suburbs of London he got up steam, to use his own phrase,
and went at a rapid pace until he met a "chum," by appointment. This
chum was also mounted on a bicycle, and was none other than our friend
Samuel Twitter, Junior--known at home as Sammy, and by his companions as
Sam.
"Isn't it a glorious day, Sam?" said Welland as he rode up and sprang
off his steed.
"Magnificent!" answered his friend, also dismounting and shaking hands.
"Why, Stephen, what an enormous machine you ride!"
"Yes, it's pretty high--48 inches. My legs are long, you see. Well,
where are we to run to-day?"
"Wherever you like," said Sam, "only let it be a short run, not more
than forty miles, for I've got an appointment this afternoon with my old
dad which I can't get off."
"That'll do very well," said Welland, "so we can go round by--"
Here he described a route by country road and village, which we pretend
not to remember. It is sufficient to know that it represented the
required "short" run of forty miles--such is the estimate of distance by
the youth of the present day!
"Now then, off we go," said Welland, giving his wheel--he quite ignored
the existence of the little thing at the back--a shove, putting his left
foot on the treadle, and flinging his right leg gracefully over.
Young Twitter followed suit, but Sammy was neither expert nor graceful.
True, he could ride easily, and travel long distances, but he could only
mount by means of the somewhat clumsy process of hopping behind for
several yards.
Once up, however, he went swiftly enough alongside his tall companion,
and the two friends thereafter kept abreast.
"Oh! isn't it a charming sensation to have the cool air fanning one's
cheeks, and feel the soft tremor of the wheel, and see the trees and
houses flow past at such a pace? It is the likest thing to flying I
ever felt," said Welland, as they descended a slight incline at,
probably, fifteen miles an hour.
"It is delightful," replied Sam, "but, I say, we better put on the
brakes here a bit. It gets much steeper further down."
Instead of applying the brake, however, young Welland, in the exuberance
of his joy, threw his long legs over the handles, and went down the
slope at railway speed, ready, as he remarked, for a jump if anything
should go wrong.
Twitter was by no means as bold as his friend, but, being ashamed to
show the white feather, he quietly threw his shorter legs over the
handles, and thus the two, perched--from a fore-and-aft point of view--
upon nothing, went in triumph to the bottom of the hill.
A long stretch of smooth level road now lay before them. It required
the merest touch on the treadles to send them skimming along like
skaters on smooth ice, or swallows flying low. Like gentle ghosts they
fleeted along with little more than a muffled sound, for their axles
turned in ball-sockets and their warning bells were silent save when
touched.
Onward they went with untiring energy, mile after mile, passing
everything on the way--pedestrians, equestrians, carts and gigs; driving
over the level ground with easy force, taking the hills with a rush to
keep up the pace, and descending on the other sides at what Welland
styled a "lightning run."
Now they were skimming along a road which skirted the margin of a canal,
the one with hands in his coat-pockets, the other with his arms crossed,
and both steering with their feet; now passing under a railway-arch, and
giving a wild shout, partly to rouse the slumbering echoes that lodged
there, and partly to rouse the spirit of a small dog which chanced to be
passing under it--in both cases successfully! Anon they were gliding
over a piece of exposed ground on which the sun beat with intense light,
causing their shadows to race along with them. Again they were down in
a hollow, gliding under a row of trees, where they shut off a little of
the steam and removed their caps, the better to enjoy the grateful
shade. Soon they were out in the sunshine again, the spokes of their
wheels invisible as they topped a small eminence from the summit of
which they took in one comprehensive view of undulating lands, with
villages scattered all round, farm-houses here and there, green fields
and flowering meadows, traversed by rivulet or canal, with cattle,
sheep, and horses gazing at them in silent or startled wonder, and birds
twittering welcome from the trees and hedge-rows everywhere.
Now they were crossing a bridge and nearing a small town where they had
to put hands to the handles again and steer with precaution, for little
dogs had a tendency to bolt out at them from unexpected corners, and
poultry is prone to lose its heads and rush into the very jaws of
danger, in a cackling effort to avoid it. Stray kittens and pigs, too,
exhibited obstinate tendencies, and only gave in when it was nearly too
late for repentance. Little children, also, became sources of danger,
standing in the middle of roads until, perceiving a possible
catastrophe, they dashed wildly aside--always to the very side on which
the riders had resolved to pass,--and escaped by absolute miracle!
Presently they came to a steep hill. It was not steep enough to
necessitate dismounting, but it rendered a rush inadvisable. They
therefore worked up slowly, and, on gaining the top, got off to breathe
and rest a while.
"That _was_ a glorious run, wasn't it, Sam?" said Welland, flicking the
dust from his knees with his handkerchief. "What d'ye say to a glass of
beer?"
"Can't do it, Stephen, I'm Blue Ribbon."
"Oh! nonsense. Why not do as I do--drink in moderation?"
"Well, I didn't think much about it when I put it on," said Sam, who was
a very sensitive, and not very strong-minded youth; "the rest of us did
it, you know, by father's advice, and I joined because they did."
Welland laughed rather sarcastically at this, but made no rejoinder, and
Sam, who could not stand being laughed at, said--
"Well, come, I'll go in for one glass. I'll be my own doctor, and
prescribe it medicinally! Besides, it's an exceptional occasion this,
for it is awfully hot."
"It's about the best run I ever had in the same space of time," said
Welland on quitting the beer shop.
"First-rate," returned Sam, "I wish my old dad could ride with us. He
_would_ enjoy it so."
"Couldn't we bring him out on a horse? He could ride that, I suppose?"
"Never saw him on a horse but once," said Sam, "and that time he fell
off. But it's worth suggesting to him."
"Better if he got a tricycle," said Welland.
"I don't think that would do, for he's too old for long rides, and too
short-winded. Now, Stephen, I'm not going to run down this hill. We
_must_ take it easy, for it's far too steep."
"Nonsense, man, it's nothing to speak of; see, I'll go first and show
you the way."
He gave the treadle a thrust that sent him off like an arrow from a bow.
"Stay! there's a caravan or something at the bottom--wild beasts' show,
I think! Stop! hold on!"
But Sam Twitter shouted in vain. Welland's was a joyous spirit, apt to
run away with him. He placed his legs over the handles for security,
and allowed the machine to run. It gathered speed as it went, for the
hill became steeper, insomuch that the rider once or twice felt the
hind-wheel rise, and had to lean well back to keep it on the ground.
The pace began to exceed even Welland's idea of pleasure, but now it was
too late to use the brake, for well did he know that on such a slope and
going at such a pace the slightest check on the front wheel would send
him over. He did not feel alarmed however, for he was now near the
bottom of the hill, and half a minute more would send him in safety on
the level road at the foot.
But just at the foot there was a sharpish turn in the road, and Welland
looked at it earnestly. At an ordinary pace such a turn could have been
easily taken, but at such a rate as he had by that time attained, he
felt it would require a tremendous lean over to accomplish it. Still he
lost no confidence, for he was an athlete by practice if not by
profession, and he gathered up his energies for the moment of action.
The people of the caravan--whoever they were--had seen him coming, and,
beginning to realise his danger to some extent, had hastily cleared the
road to let him pass.
Welland considered the rate of speed; felt, rather than calculated, the
angle of inclination; leaned over boldly until the tire almost slipped
sideways on the road, and came rushing round with a magnificent sweep,
when, horrible sight! a slight ridge of what is called road-metal
crossed the entire road from side to side! A drain or water pipe had
recently been repaired, and the new ridge had not yet been worn down by
traffic. There was no time for thought or change of action. Another
moment and the wheel was upon it, the crash came, and the rider went off
with such force that he was shot well in advance of the machine, as it
went with tremendous violence into the ditch. If Welland's feet had
been on the treadles he must have turned a complete somersault. As it
was he alighted on his feet, but came to the ground with such force that
he failed to save himself. One frantic effort he made and then went
down headlong and rolled over on his back in a state of insensibility.
When Sam Twitter came to the bottom of the hill with the brake well
applied he was able to check himself in time to escape the danger, and
ran to where his friend lay.
For a few minutes the unfortunate youth lay as if he had been dead.
Then his blood resumed its flow, and when the eyes opened he found Sam
kneeling on one side of him with a smelling bottle which some lady had
lent him, and a kindly-faced elderly man with an iron-grey beard
kneeling on the other side and holding a cup of water to his lips.
"That's right, Stephen, look up," said Sam, who was terribly frightened,
"you're not much hurt, are you?"
"Hurt, old fellow, eh?" sighed Stephen, "why should I be hurt? Where am
I? What has happened?"
"Take a sip, my young friend, it will revive you," said the man with the
kindly face. "You have had a narrow escape, but God has mercifully
spared you. Try to move now; gently--we must see that no bones have
been broken before allowing you to rise."
By this time Welland had completely recovered, and was anxious to rise;
all the more that a crowd of children surrounded him, among whom he
observed several ladies and gentlemen, but he lay still until the kindly
stranger had felt him all over and come to the conclusion that no
serious damage had been done.
"Oh! I'm all right, thank you," said the youth on rising, and affecting
to move as though nothing had happened, but he was constrained to catch
hold of the stranger rather suddenly, and sat down on the grass by the
road-side.
"I do believe I've got a shake after all," he said with a perplexed
smile and sigh. "But," he added, looking round with an attempt at
gaiety, "I suspect my poor bicycle has got a worse shake. Do look after
it, Sam, and see how it is."
Twitter soon returned with a crestfallen expression. "It's done for,
Stephen. I'm sorry to say the whole concern seems to be mashed up into
a kind of wire-fencing!"
"Is it past mending, Sam?"
"Past mending by any ordinary blacksmith, certainly. No one but the
maker can doctor it, and I should think it would take him a fortnight at
least."
"What is to be done?" said Stephen, with some of his companion's regret
of tone. "What a fool I was to take such a hill--spoilt such a glorious
day too--for you as well as myself, Sam. I'm _very_ sorry, but that
won't mend matters."
"Are you far from home, gentlemen?" asked the man with the iron-grey
beard, who had listened to the conversation with a look of sympathy.
"Ay, much too far to walk," said Welland. "D'you happen to know how far
off the nearest railway station is?"
"Three miles," answered the stranger, "and in your condition you are
quite unfit to walk that distance."
"I'm not so sure of that," replied the youth, with a pitiful look. "I
think I'm game for three miles, if I had nothing to carry but myself,
but I can't leave my bicycle in the ditch, you know!"
"Of course you can't," rejoined the stranger in a cheery tone, "and I
think we can help you in this difficulty. I am a London City
Missionary. My name is John Seaward. We have, as you see, brought out
a number of our Sunday-school children, to give them a sight of God's
beautiful earth; poor things, they've been used to bricks, mortar, and
stone all their lives hitherto. Now, if you choose to spend the
remainder of the day with us, we will be happy to give you and the
injured bicycle a place in our vans till we reach a cabstand or a
railway station. What say you? It will give much pleasure to me and
the teachers."
Welland glanced at his friend. "You see, Sam, there's no help for it,
old boy. You'll have to return alone."
"Unless your friend will also join us," said the missionary.
"You are very kind," said Sam, "but I cannot stay, as I have an
engagement which must be kept. Never mind, Stephen. I'll just complete
the trip alone, and comfort myself with the assurance that I leave you
in good hands. So, good-bye, old boy."
"Good-bye, Twitter," said Stephen, grasping his friend's hand.
"Twitter," repeated the missionary, "I heard your friend call you Sam
just now. Excuse my asking--are you related to Samuel Twitter of
Twitter, Slime, and Company, in the city?"
"I'm his eldest son," said Sam.
"Then I have much pleasure in making your acquaintance," returned the
other, extending his hand, "for although I have never met your father, I
know your mother well. She is one of the best and most regular teachers
in our Sunday-schools. Is she not, Hetty?" he said, turning to a
sweet-faced girl who stood near him.
"Indeed she is, I was her pupil for some years, and now I teach one of
her old classes," replied the girl.
"I work in the neighbourhood of Whitechapel, sir," continued the
missionary, "and most of the children here attend the Institution in
George Yard."
"Well, I shall tell my mother of this unexpected meeting," said Sam, as
he remounted his bicycle. "Good-bye, Stephen. Don't romp too much with
the children!"
"Adieu, Sam, and don't break your neck on the bicycle."
In a few minutes Sam Twitter and his bicycle were out of sight.