Chapter 3

Wot are these fine capers perposed by the papers? These 'ints about lassos and butterfly nets? To turn scorcher-catchers the old pewter-snatchers In 'elmets must take fewer stodges and wets! Wot, treat _hus_ like bufflers or beetles! The scufflers In soft, silent shoes, turn Red Injins? You're wrong! It's all bosh and bubble! I'm orf--at the double!-- "So long!"

* * * * *

Illustration: _Owner_ (_as the car insists upon backing into a dike_). "Don't be alarmed! Keep cool! Try and keep cool!"

[_Friend thinks there is every probability of their keeping VERY cool, whether they try to or not!_

* * * * *

Illustration: _Village Constable_ (_to villager who has been knocked down by passing motor cyclist_). "You didn't see the number, but could you swear to the man?"

_Villager._ "I did; but I don't think 'e 'eard me."

* * * * *

Illustration: THE JOYS OF MOTORING.--No, this is not a dreadful accident. He is simply tightening a nut or something, and she is hoping he won't be much longer.

* * * * *

SUGGESTED ADDITIONAL TAXATION

_£_ _s._ _d._

For every Motor Car 4 4 0 If with smell 5 5 0 Extra offensive ditto 6 6 0

Motor Car proceeding at over ten miles an hour, for each additional mile 1 1 0

For every Bicycle used for "scorching" 0 10 0

* * * * *

THE ORIGINAL CLASSICAL BICYCLIST.--"Ixion; or, the Man on the Wheel."

* * * * *

MY STEAM MOTOR-CAR

(1) Monday.--I buy a beautiful steam motor-car. Am photographed. (2) Tuesday.--I take it out. Pull the wrong lever, and back into a shop window. A bad start. (3) Wednesday morning.--A few things I ran over. (4) Wednesday afternoon.--Took too sharp a turn. Narrowly escaped knocking down policeman at the corner. Ran over both his feet. (5) Thursday morning.--Got stuck in a ditch four miles from home. (6) Thursday evening.--Arrive home. Back the car into the shed. Miss the door and knock the shed down. (7) Friday.--Ran over my neighbour's dog. (8) Saturday.--Silly car breaks down three miles from home. Hire a horse to tow it back. (9) Sunday.--Filling up. Petrol tank caught fire. Wretched thing burnt. Thank goodness!

* * *

Illustration: MY STEAM MOTOR-CAR

* * * * *

MODERN ROMANCE OF THE ROAD

["It is said that the perpetrators of a recent burglary got clear away with their booty by the help of an automobile. At this rate we may expect to be attacked, ere long, by automobilist highwaymen."--_Paris Correspondent of Daily Paper._]

It was midnight. The wind howled drearily over the lonely heath; the moon shone fitfully through the driving clouds. By its gleam an observer might have noted a solitary automobile painfully jolting along the rough road that lay across the common. Its speed, as carefully noted by an intelligent constable half-an-hour earlier, was 41.275 miles an hour. To the ordinary observer it would appear somewhat less. Two figures might have been descried on the machine; the one the gallant Hubert de Fitztompkyns, the other Lady Clarabella, his young and lovely bride. Clarabella shivered, and drew her sables more closely around her.

"I am frightened," she murmured. "It is so dark and cold, Hubert, and this is a well-known place for highwaymen! Suppose we should be attacked?"

"Pooh!" replied her husband, deftly manipulating the oil-can. "Who should attack us when 'tis common talk that you pawned your diamonds a month ago? Besides, we have a swivel-mounted Maxim on our machine. Ill would it fare with the rogue who--Heavens! what was that?"

From the far distance sounded a weird, unearthly noise, growing clearer and louder even as Hubert and his wife listened. It was the whistle of another automobile!

In a moment Hubert had turned on the acetylene search-light, and gazed with straining eyes down the road behind him. Then he turned to his wife. "'Tis Cutthroat giving us chase," he said simply. "Pass the cordite cartridges, please."

Lady Clarabella grew deathly pale. "I don't know where they are!" she gasped. "I think--I think I must have left them on my dressing-table."

"Then we are lost. Cutthroat is mounted on his bony Black Jet, which covers a mile a minute--and he is the most blood-thirsty ruffian on the road. Shut off steam, Clarabella! We can but yield."

"Never!" cried his wife. "Here, give me the lever; we are nearly at the top of this tremendously steep hill--we will foil him yet!"

Hubert was too much astonished to speak. By terrific efforts the gallant automobile arrived at the summit, when Clarabella applied the brake. Then she gazed down the narrow road behind her. "Take the starting-lever, Hubert," she said, "and do as I tell you."

Ever louder sounded the clatter of their pursuer's machine; at last its head-light showed in the distance, as with greatly diminished speed it began to climb the hill.

"Now!" shrieked Clarabella. "Full speed astern, Hubert! Let her go!"

The automobile went backwards down the hill like a flash of lightning. Cutthroat had barely time to realise what was happening before it was upon him. Too late he tried to steer Black Jet out of the way. There was a yell, a sound of crashing steel, a cloud of steam. When it cleared away, it revealed Hubert and Clarabella still seated on their machine, which was only slightly damaged, while Cutthroat and Black Jet were knocked into countless atoms!

* * * * *

Illustration: GREAT SELF-RESTRAINT.--_Lady in pony-cart_ (_who has made several unsuccessful attempts to pass persevering beginner occupying the whole road_). "Unless you soon fall off, I'm afraid I shall miss my train!"

* * * * *

Illustration: "These trailers are splendid things! You must really get one and take me out, Percy!"

* * * * *

Illustration: THE RIVAL FORCES.

(Scene--_Lonely Yorkshire moor. Miles from anywhere._)

_Passing Horse-dealer_ (_who has been asked for a tow by owners of broken-down motor-car_). "Is it easy to pull?"

_Motorist._ "Oh yes. Very light indeed!"

_Horse-dealer._ "Then supposin' you pull it yourselves!"

[_Drives off._

* * * * *

Illustration:

_The Owner_ (_after five breakdowns and a spill_). "Are y-you k-keen on r-riding home?"

_His Friend._ "N-not very."

_The Owner._ "L-let's l-leave it a-and _walk_, s-shall we?"

* * * * *

Illustration: SUNDAY MORNING.--

_Cyclist_ (_to rural policeman_). "Nice crowd out this morning!"

_Rural Policeman_ (_who has received a tip_). "Yes, an' yer can't do with 'em! If yer 'ollers at 'em, they honly turns round and says, 'Pip, pip'!"

* * * * *

Illustration: _Rustic_ (_to beginner, who has charged the hedge_). "It's no good, sir. They things won't jump!"

* * * * *

THE UNIVERSAL JUGGERNAUT.--"Anyone," says the _Daily Telegraph_, "who has driven an automobile will know that it is quite impossible to run over a child and remain unconscious of the fact." _Any one who has driven an automobile!_ Heavens! what a sweeping charge! Is there none innocent?

* * * * *

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?"

* * * * *