Chapter 4

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."

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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'?"

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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.

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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.

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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."

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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?"

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Illustration: BROTHERS IN ADVERSITY

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

_Motorist._ "So's the car!"

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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_!"

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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?"

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!"

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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!"

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Illustration: GROTESQUERIES

_Words wanted to express feelings_

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

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Illustration: SO INCONSIDERATE

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

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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.

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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."

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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!"

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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.

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

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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.

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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?"

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

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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!"

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Illustration: AFTER THE ACCIDENT

"Toujours la politesse."

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Illustration: QUITE A LITTLE HOLIDAY

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

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

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Illustration: WHATS IN A NAME?

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

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_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.

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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."

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

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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?"

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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?"