Chapter 5

"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."

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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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._

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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?_"

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Illustration: NOTE TO THE SUPERSTITIOUS

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

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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!"

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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!"

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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.

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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."

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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."

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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."

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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!"

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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_!"

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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."

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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.

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"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.

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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.

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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.

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

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

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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!"

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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.

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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.

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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!

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Illustration: FINIS

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