Office; ten o'clock to-morrow morning,' he shouted, as I rode off, 'and
ef I don't convince you there's money in this job, my name's not Cyrus
W. Hitchcock.'
Something about his keen, unlovely face impressed me with a sense of his
underlying honesty. 'Very well,' I answered,'I'll come, if you follow me
no further.' I reflected that Fraunheim was a populous village, and that
only beyond it did the mountain road over the Taunus begin to grow
lonely. If he wished to cut my throat, I was well within reach of the
resources of civilisation.
When I got home to the Abode of Blighted Fraus that evening, I debated
seriously with myself whether or not I should accept Mr. Cyrus W.
Hitchcock's mysterious invitation. Prudence said _no_; curiosity said
_yes_; I put the question to a meeting of one; and, since I am a
daughter of Eve, curiosity had it. Carried unanimously. I think I might
have hesitated, indeed, had it not been for the Blighted Fraus. Their
talk was of dinner and of the digestive process; they were critics of
digestion. They each of them sat so complacently through the
evening--solid and stolid, stodgy and podgy, stuffed comatose images,
knitting white woollen shawls, to throw over their capacious shoulders
at _table d'hote_--and they purred with such content in their
middle-aged rotundity that I made up my mind I must take warning
betimes, and avoid their temptations to adipose deposit. I prefer to
grow upwards; the Frau grows sideways. Better get my throat cut by an
American desperado, in my pursuit of romance, than settle down on a rock
like a placid fat oyster. I am not by nature sessile.
Adventures are to the adventurous. They abound on every side; but only
the chosen few have the courage to embrace them. And they will not come
to you: you must go out to seek them. Then they meet you half-way, and
rush into your arms, for they know their true lovers. There were eight
Blighted Fraus at the Home for Lost Ideals, and I could tell by simple
inspection that they had not had an average of half an adventure per
lifetime between them. They sat and knitted still, like Awful Examples.
If I had declined to meet Mr. Hitchcock at Fraunheim, I know not what
changes it might have induced in my life. I might now be knitting. But I
went boldly forth, on a voyage of exploration, prepared to accept aught
that fate held in store for me.
As Mr. Hitchcock had assured me there was money in his offer, I felt
justified in speculating. I expended another three marks on the hire of
a bicycle, though I ran the risk thereby of going perhaps without
Monday's dinner. That showed my vocation. The Blighted Fraus, I felt
sure, would have clung to their dinner at all hazards.
When I arrived at Fraunheim, I found my alert American punctually there
before me. He raised his crush hat with awkward politeness. I could see
he was little accustomed to ladies' society. Then he pointed to a close
cab in which he had reached the village.
'I've got it inside,' he whispered, in a confidential tone. 'I couldn't
let 'em ketch sight of it. You see, there's dollars in it.'
'What have you got inside?' I asked, suspiciously, drawing back. I don't
know why, but the word 'it' somehow suggested a corpse. I began to grow
frightened.
'Why, the wheel, of course,' he answered. 'Ain't you come here to ride
it?'
'Oh, the wheel?' I echoed, vaguely, pretending to look wise; but
unaware, as yet, that that word was the accepted Americanism for a
cycle. 'And I have come to ride it?'
'Why, certainly,' he replied, jerking his hand towards the cab. 'But we
mustn't start right here. This thing has got to be kept dark, don't you
see, till the last day.'
Till the last day! That was ominous. It sounded like monomania. So
ghostly and elusive! I began to suspect my American ally of being a
dangerous madman.
'Jest you wheel away a bit up the hill,' he went on, 'out o' sight of
the folks, and I'll fetch her along to you.'
'Her?' I cried. 'Who?' For the man bewildered me.
'Why, the wheel, miss! _You_ understand! This is business, you bet! And
you're jest the right woman!'
He motioned me on. Urged by a sort of spell, I remounted my machine and
rode out of the village. He followed, on the box-seat of his cab. Then,
when we had left the world well behind, and stood among the sun-smitten
boles of the pine-trees, he opened the door mysteriously, and produced
from the vehicle a very odd-looking bicycle.
It was clumsy to look at. It differed immensely, in many particulars,
from any machine I had yet seen or ridden.
The strenuous American fondled it for a moment with his hand, as if it
were a pet child. Then he mounted nimbly. Pride shone in his eye. I saw
in a second he was a fond inventor.
He rode a few yards on. Next he turned to me eagerly. 'This ma-chine,'
he said, in an impressive voice, '_is_ pro-pelled _by_ an eccentric.'
Like all his countrymen, he laid most stress on unaccented syllables.
'Oh, I knew you were an eccentric,' I said, 'the moment I set eyes upon
you.'
He surveyed me gravely. 'You misunderstand me, miss,' he corrected.
'_When_ I say an eccentric, I mean, a crank.'
'They are much the same thing,' I answered, briskly. 'Though I confess I
would hardly have applied so rude a word as _crank_ to you.'
He looked me over suspiciously, as if I were trying to make game of him,
but my face was sphinx-like. So he brought the machine a yard or two
nearer, and explained its construction to me. He was quite right: it
_was_ driven by a crank. It had no chain, but was moved by a pedal,
working narrowly up and down, and attached to a rigid bar, which
impelled the wheels by means of an eccentric.
Besides this, it had a curious device for altering the gearing
automatically while one rode, so as to enable one to adapt it to the
varying slope in mounting hills. This part of the mechanism he explained
to me elaborately. There was a gauge in front which allowed one to sight
the steepness of the slope by mere inspection; and according as the
gauge marked one, two, three, or four, as its gradient on the scale,
the rider pressed a button on the handle-bar with his left hand once,
twice, thrice, or four times, so that the gearing adapted itself without
an effort to the rise in the surface. Besides, there were devices for
rigidity and compensation. Altogether, it was a most apt and ingenious
piece of mechanism. I did not wonder he was proud of it.
'Get up and ride, miss,' he said in a persuasive voice.
I did as I was bid. To my immense surprise, I ran up the steep hill as
smoothly and easily as if it were a perfectly-laid level.
'Goes nicely, doesn't she?' Mr. Hitchcock murmured, rubbing his hands.
'Beautifully,' I answered. 'One could ride such a machine up Mont Blanc,
I should fancy.'
He stroked his chin with nervous fingers. 'It ought to knock 'em,' he
said, in an eager voice. 'It's geared to run up most anything in
creation.'
'How steep?'
'One foot in three.'
'That's good.'
'Yes. It'll climb Mount Washington.'
'What do you call it?' I asked.
He looked me over with close scrutiny.
'In Amurrica,' he said, slowly, 'we call it the Great Manitou, because
it kin do pretty well what it chooses; but in Europe, I am thinking of
calling it the Martin Conway or the Whymper, or something like that.'
'Why so?'
'Well, because it's a famous mountain climber.'
'I see,' I said. 'With such a machine you'll put a notice on the
Matterhorn, "This hill is dangerous to cyclists."'
He laughed low to himself, and rubbed his hands again. 'You'll do,
miss,' he said. 'You're the right sort, you are. The moment I seen you,
I thought we two could do a trade together. Benefits me; benefits you. A
mutual advantage. Reciprocity is the soul of business. You hev some go
in you, you hev. There's money in your feet. You'll give these Meinherrs
fits. You'll take the clear-starch out of them.'
'I fail to catch on,' I answered, speaking his own dialect to humour
him.
'Oh, you'll get there all the same,' he replied, stroking his machine
meanwhile. 'It was a squirrel, it was!' (He pronounced it _squirl_.) 'It
'ud run up a tree ef it wanted, wouldn't it?' He was talking to it now
as if it were a dog or a baby. 'There, there, it mustn't kick; it was a
frisky little thing! Jest you step up on it, miss, and have a go at that
there mountain.'
I stepped up and had a 'go.' The machine bounded forward like an agile
greyhound. You had but to touch it, and it ran of itself. Never had I
ridden so vivacious, so animated a cycle. I returned to him, sailing,
with the gradient reversed. The Manitou glided smoothly, as on a gentle
slope, without the need for back-pedalling.
'It soars!' he remarked with enthusiasm.
'Balloons are at discount beside it,' I answered.
'Now you want to know about this business, I guess,' he went on. 'You
want to know jest where the reciprocity comes in, anyhow?'
'I am ready to hear you expound,' I admitted, smiling.
'Oh, it ain't all on one side,' he continued, eyeing his machine at an
angle with parental affection. 'I'm a-going to make your fortune right
here. You shall ride her for me on the last day; and ef you pull this
thing off, don't you be scared that I won't treat you handsome.'
'If you were a little more succinct,' I said, gravely, 'we should get
forrader faster.'
'Perhaps you wonder,' he put in, 'that with money on it like this, I
should intrust the job _into_ the hands of a female.' I winced, but was
silent. 'Well, it's like this, don't you see; ef a female wins, it makes
success all the more striking and con-spicuous. The world to-day _is_
ruled _by_ adver_tize_ment.'
I could stand it no longer. 'Mr. Hitchcock,' I said, with dignity, 'I
haven't the remotest idea what on earth you are talking about.'
He gazed at me with surprise. 'What?' he exclaimed, at last. 'And you
kin cycle like that! Not know what all the cycling world is mad about!
Why, you don't mean to tell me you're not a pro-fessional?'
I enlightened him at once as to my position in society, which was
respectable, if not lucrative. His face fell somewhat. 'High-toned, eh?
Still, you'd run all the same, wouldn't you?' he inquired.
'Run for what?' I asked, innocently. 'Parliament? The Presidency? The
Frankfort Town Council?'
He had difficulty in fathoming the depths of my ignorance. But by
degrees I understood him. It seemed that the German Imperial and
Prussian Royal Governments had offered a Kaiserly and Kingly prize for
the best military bicycle; the course to be run over the Taunus, from
Frankfort to Limburg; the winning machine to get the equivalent of a
thousand pounds; each firm to supply its own make and rider. The 'last
day' was Saturday next; and the Great Manitou was the dark horse of the
contest.
Then all was clear as day to me. Mr. Cyrus W. Hitchcock was keeping his
machine a profound secret; he wanted a woman to ride it, so that his
triumph might be the more complete; and the moment he saw me pedal up
the hill, in trying to avoid him, he recognised at once that I was that
woman.
I recognised it too. 'Twas a pre-ordained harmony. After two or three
trials I felt that the Manitou was built for me, and I was built for the
Manitou. We ran together like parts of one mechanism. I was always famed
for my circular ankle-action; and in this new machine, ankle-action was
everything. Strength of limb counted for naught; what told was the power
of 'clawing up again' promptly. I possess that power: I have prehistoric
feet: my remote progenitors must certainly have been tree-haunting
monkeys.
We arranged terms then and there.
'You accept?'
'Implicitly.'
If I pulled off the race, I was to have fifty pounds. If I didn't, I was
to have five. 'It ain't only your skill, you see,' Mr. Hitchcock said,
with frank commercialism. 'It's your personal attractiveness as well
that I go upon. That's an element to consider in business relations.'
'My face is my fortune,' I answered, gravely. He nodded acquiescence.
Till Saturday, then, I was free. Meanwhile, I trained, and practised
quietly with the Manitou, in sequestered parts of the hills. I also took
spells, turn about, at the Staedel Institute. I like to intersperse
culture and athletics. I know something about athletics, and hope in
time to acquire a taste for culture. 'Tis expected of a Girton girl,
though my own accomplishments run rather towards rowing, punting,
bicycling.
On Saturday, I confess, I rose with great misgivings. I was not a
professional; and to find oneself practically backed for a thousand
pounds in a race against men is a trifle disquieting. Still, having
once put my hand to the plough, I felt I was bound to pull it through
somehow. I dressed my hair neatly, in a very tight coil. I ate a light
breakfast, eschewing the fried sausages which the Blighted Fraus pressed
upon my notice, and satisfying myself with a gently-boiled egg and some
toast and coffee. I always found I rowed best at Cambridge on the
lightest diet; in my opinion, the raw beef _regime_ is a serious error
in training.
At a minute or two before eleven I turned up at the Schiller Platz in my
short serge dress and cycling jacket. The great square was thronged with
spectators to see us start; the police made a lane through their midst
for the riders. My backer had advised me to come to the post as late as
possible, 'For I have entered your name,' he said, 'simply as Lois
Cayley. These Deutschers don't think but what you're a man and a
brother. But I am apprehensive of con-tingencies. When you put in a show
they'll try to raise objections to you on account of your being a
female. There won't be much time, though, and I shall rush the
objections. Once they let you run and win, it don't matter to me whether
I get the twenty thousand marks or not. It's the adver_tize_ment that
tells. Jest you mark my words, miss, and don't you make no mistake about
it--the world to-day is governed by adver_tize_ment.'
So I turned up at the last moment, and cast a timid glance at my
competitors. They were all men, of course, and two of them were German
officers in a sort of undress cycling uniform. They eyed me
superciliously. One of them went up and spoke to the Herr
Over-Superintendent who had charge of the contest. I understood him to
be lodging an objection against a mere woman taking part in the race.
The Herr Over-Superintendent, a bulky official, came up beside me and
perpended visibly. He bent his big brows to it. 'Twas appalling to
observe the measurable amount of Teutonic cerebration going on under
cover of his round, green glasses. He was perpending for some minutes.
Time was almost up. Then he turned to Mr. Hitchcock, having finally made
up his colossal mind, and murmured rudely, 'The woman cannot compete.'
'Why not?' I inquired, in my very sweetest German, with an angelic
smile, though my heart trembled.
'Warum nicht? Because the word "rider" in the Kaiserly and Kingly
for-this-contest-provided decree is distinctly in the masculine gender
stated.'
'Pardon me, Herr Over-Superintendent,' I replied, pulling out a copy of
Law 97 on the subject, with which I had duly provided myself, 'if you
will to Section 45 of the Bicycles-Circulation-Regulation-Act your
attention turn, you will find it therein expressly enacted that unless
any clause be anywhere to the contrary inserted, the word "rider," in
the masculine gender put, shall here the word "rideress" in the feminine
to embrace be considered.'
For, anticipating this objection, I had taken the precaution to look the
legal question up beforehand.
'That is true,' the Herr Over-Superintendent observed, in a musing
voice, gazing down at me with relenting eyes. 'The masculine habitually
embraces the feminine.' And he brought his massive intellect to bear
upon the problem once more with prodigious concentration.
I seized my opportunity. 'Let me start, at least,' I urged, holding out
the Act. 'If I win, you can the matter more fully with the Kaiserly and
Kingly Governments hereafter argue out.'
'I guess this will be an international affair,' Mr. Hitchcock remarked,
well pleased. 'It would be a first-rate adver_tize_ment for the Great
Manitou ef England and Germany were to make the question into a _casus
belli_. The United States could look on, and pocket the chestnuts.'
'Two minutes to go,' the official starter with the watch called out.
'Fall in, then, Fraeulein Englaenderin,' the Herr Over-Superintendent
observed, without prejudice, waving me into line. He pinned a badge with
a large number, 7, on my dress. 'The Kaiserly and Kingly Governments
shall on the affair of the starting's legality hereafter on my report
more at leisure pass judgment.'
The lieutenant in undress uniform drew back a little.
'Oh, if this is to be woman's play,' he muttered, 'then can a Prussian
officer himself by competing not into contempt bring.'
I dropped a little curtsy. 'If the Herr Lieutenant is afraid even to
_enter_ against an Englishwoman----' I said, smiling.
He came up to the scratch sullenly. 'One minute to go!' called out the
starter.
We were all on the alert. There was a pause; a deep breath. I was
horribly frightened, but I tried to look calm. Then sharp and quick came
the one word 'Go!' And like arrows from a bow, off we all started.
I had ridden over the whole course the day but one before, on a mountain
pony, with an observant eye and my sedulous American--rising at five
o'clock, so as not to excite undue attention; and I therefore knew
beforehand the exact route we were to follow; but I confess when I saw
the Prussian lieutenant and one of my other competitors dash forward at
a pace that simply astonished me, that fifty pounds seemed to melt away
in the dim abyss of the Ewigkeit. I gave up all for lost. I could never
make the running against such practised cyclists.
[Illustration: DON'T SCORCH, MISS; DON'T SCORCH.]
However, we all turned out into the open road which leads across the
plain and down the Main valley, in the direction of Mayence. For the
first ten miles or so, it is a dusty level. The surface is perfect; but
'twas a blinding white thread. As I toiled along it, that broiling June
day, I could hear the voice of my backer, who followed on horseback,
exhorting me in loud tones, 'Don't scorch, miss; don't scorch; never
mind ef you lose sight of 'em. Keep your wind; that's the point. The
wind, the wind's everything. Let 'em beat you on the level; you'll catch
'em up fast enough when you get on the Taunus!'
But in spite of his encouragement, I almost lost heart as I saw one
after another of my opponents' backs disappear in the distance, till at
last I was left toiling along the bare white road alone, in a
shower-bath of sunlight, with just a dense cloud of dust rising gray far
ahead of me. My head swam. It repented me of my boldness.
Then the riders on horseback began to grumble; for by police regulation
they were not allowed to pass the hindmost of the cyclists; and they
were kept back by my presence from following up their special champions.
'Give it up, Fraeulein, give it up!' they cried. 'You're beaten. Let us
pass and get forward.' But at the self-same moment, I heard the shrill
voice of my American friend whooping aloud across the din, 'Don't you do
nothing of the sort, miss! You stick to it, and keep your wind! It's the
wind that wins! Them Germans won't be worth a cent on the high slopes,
anyway!'
Encouraged by his voice, I worked steadily on, neither scorching nor
relaxing, but maintaining an even pace at my natural pitch under the
broiling sunshine. Heat rose in waves on my face from the road below; in
the thin white dust, the accusing tracks of six wheels confronted me.
Still I kept on following them, till I reached the town of Hoechst--nine
miles from Frankfort. Soldiers along the route were timing us at
intervals with chronometers, and noting our numbers. As I rattled over
the paved High Street, I called aloud to one of them. 'How far ahead the
last man?'
He shouted back, good-humouredly: 'Four minutes, Fraeulein.'
Again I lost heart. Then I mounted a slight slope, and felt how easily
the Manitou moved up the gradient. From its summit I could note a long
gray cloud of dust rolling steadily onward down the hill towards
Hattersheim.
I coasted down, with my feet up, and a slight breeze just cooling me.
Mr. Hitchcock, behind, called out, full-throated, from his seat, 'No
hurry! No flurry! Take your time! Take--your--time, miss!'
Over the bridge at Hattersheim you turn to the right abruptly, and begin
to mount by the side of a pretty little stream, the Schwarzbach, which
runs brawling over rocks down the Taunus from Eppstein. By this time the
excitement had somewhat cooled down for the moment; I was getting
reconciled to be beaten on the level, and began to realise that my
chances would be best as we approached the steepest bits of the mountain
road about Niederhausen. So I positively plucked up heart to look about
me and enjoy the scenery. With hair flying behind--that coil had played
me false--I swept through Hofheim, a pleasant little village at the
mouth of a grassy valley inclosed by wooded slopes, the Schwarzbach
making cool music in the glen below as I mounted beside it. Clambering
larches, like huge candelabra, stood out on the ridge, silhouetted
against the skyline.
'How far ahead the last man?' I cried to the recording soldier. He
answered me back, 'Two minutes, Fraeulein.'
I was gaining on them; I was gaining! I thundered across the
Schwarzbach, by half-a-dozen clamorous little iron bridges, making easy
time now, and with my feet working as if they were themselves an
integral part of the machinery. Up, up, up; it looked a vertical ascent;
the Manitou glided well in its oil-bath at its half-way gearing. I rode
for dear life. At sixteen miles, Lorsbach; at eighteen, Eppstein; the
road still rising. 'How far ahead the last man?' 'Just round the corner,
Fraeulein!'
I put on a little steam. Sure enough, round the corner I caught sight of
his back. With a spurt, I passed him--a dust-covered soul, very hot and
uncomfortable. He had not kept his wind; I flew past him like a
whirlwind. But, oh, how sultry hot in that sweltering, close valley! A
pretty little town, Eppstein, with its mediaeval castle perched high on a
craggy rock. I owed it some gratitude, I felt, as I left it behind, for
'twas here that I came up with the tail-end of my opponents.
That one victory cheered me. So far, our route had lain along the
well-made but dusty high road in the steaming valley; at Nieder-Josbach,
two miles on, we quitted the road abruptly, by the course marked out for
us, and turned up a mountain path, only wide enough for two cycles
abreast--a path that clambered towards the higher slopes of the Taunus.
That was arranged on purpose--for this was no fair-weather show, but a
practical trial for military bicycles, under the conditions they might
meet with in actual warfare. It was rugged riding: black walls of pine
rose steep on either hand; the ground was uncertain. Our path mounted
sharply from the first; the steeper the better. By the time I had
reached Ober-Josbach, nestling high among larch-woods, I had distanced
all but two of my opponents. It was cooler now, too. As I passed the
hamlet my cry altered.
[Illustration: HOW FAR AHEAD THE FIRST MAN?]
'How far ahead the first man?'.
'Two minutes, Fraeulein,'
'A civilian?'
'No, no; a Prussian officer.'
The Herr Lieutenant led, then. For Old England's sake, I felt I must
beat him.
The steepest slope of all lay in the next two miles. If I were going to
win I must pass these two there, for my advantage lay all in the climb;
if it came to coasting, the men's mere weight scored a point in their
favour. Bump, crash, jolt! I pedalled away like a machine; the Manitou
sobbed; my ankles flew round so that I scarcely felt them. But the road
was rough and scarred with waterways--ruts turned by rain to runnels. At
half a mile, after a desperate struggle among sand and pebbles, I passed
the second man; just ahead, the Prussian officer looked round and saw
me. 'Thunder-weather! you there, Englaenderin?' he cried, darting me a
look of unchivalrous dislike, such as only your sentimental German can
cast at a woman.
[Illustration: I AM HERE BEHIND YOU, HERR LIEUTENANT.]
'Yes, I am here, behind you, Herr Lieutenant,' I answered, putting on a
spurt; 'and I hope next to be before you.'