Miss Cayley's Adventures - Chapter 3

Miss Cayley’s Adventures (1899) by Grant Allen is a charming, unconventional tale of a young Victorian English woman's independence, wit and quiet rebellion.

When 21-year-old Lois Cayley finds herself requiring income, she sets off across Europe - navigating unfamiliar places and a series of surprising encounters, with intelligence, courage and charm. What begins as a practical necessity soon becomes something more: a journey of self-reliance and discovery.

At a time when women were expected to remain firmly within the bounds of home and propriety, Lois’s freedom to travel, think and act for herself was considered strikingly radical.

Light, fast-moving and quietly subversive, Miss Cayley’s Adventures offers both entertainment and a glimpse of a changing world - one in which a woman might begin to claim a life of her own...

Transcript

Hello there, Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of Miss Cayley's Adventures, The charming old novel from 1899 by English author Grant Allen. As you'll know, If you've already heard the first couple of chapters, We are following along with the European adventures of a young Miss Lois Cayley who is an intelligent, Educated, Attractive, Independent young woman leaving London and setting out into the world to see what awaits her. Perhaps you've already heard the preceding parts of this book. If you haven't and you'd like to, You can certainly look for the playlist for Miss Cayley's Adventures and you'll find everything there in order. But for now, Let's just take a moment here to have a nice, Deep exhale. Letting go of the day, Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment. For right now, There's nowhere else we have to go, Nothing else we have to be doing. So we can just relax, Get ourselves comfortable, And enjoy the ongoing radical tale of Miss Cayley's Adventures. Chapter Three. The Adventure of the Inquisitive American. In one week, I had multiplied my capital two hundred and forty-fold. I left London with tuppence in the world. I quitted Schlangenbad with two pounds in pocket. There's a splendid turnover, I thought to myself. If this luck holds at the same rate, I shall have made four hundred and eighty pounds by Tuesday next, And I may look forward to being a Barney Bernardo by Christmas. For I had taken high mathematical honours at Cambridge, And if there is anything on earth on which I pride myself, It is my firm grasp of the principle of ratios. Still, In spite of this brilliant financial prospect, A budding Klondike, I went away from the little spa on the flanks of the Taunus with a heavy heart. I had grown quite to like dear, Virulent, Fidgety old Lady Georgina, And I felt that it had cost me a distinct wrench to part with Harold Tillington. The wrench left a scar which was long in healing. But, As I am not a professional sentimentalist, I will not trouble you here with details of the symptoms. My livelihood, However, Was now assured me. With two pounds in pocket, A sensible girl can read her title clear to six days board and lodging at six marks a day, With a glorious margin of four marks over for pocket money. And if at the end of six days my fairy godmother had not pointed me out some other means of earning my bread honestly, Well, I should feel myself unworthy to be ranked in the noble army of adventuresses. I thank thee, Lady Georgina, For teaching me that word. An adventurous I would be, For I loved adventure. Meanwhile, It occurred to me that I might fill up the interval by going to study art at Frankfurt. Elsie Petheridge had been there and had impressed upon me the fact that I must on no account omit to see the Städel Gallery. She was strong on culture. Besides, The study of art should be most useful to an adventuress, For she must need all the arts that human skill has developed. So, To Frankfurt I betook myself, And found there a nice little pension for ladies only, Frau Bockenheifner assured me, At very moderate rates in a pleasant part of the Lundenstrasse. It had dimity curtains. I will not deny that as I entered the house I was conscious of feeling lonely. My heart sank once or twice as I glanced around the luncheon table at the domestically unsympathetic German old maids, Who formed the rank and file of my fellow boarders. There they sat, Eight comfortable frowls who had missed their vacation. Plentiful ladies bulging and surging in tightly stretched black silk bodices. They had been cut out for such housewives as Harold Tillington had described, But found themselves deprived of their natural sphere in life by the unaccountable caprice of the men of their nation. Each was a model Teutonic matron monkey. Each looked capable of frying Frankfurt sausages to a turn, And knitting woollen socks to a remote eternity. But I sought in vain for one kindred soul among them how horrified they would have been with their fat pudding faces and big saucer eyes, Had I boldly announced myself as an English adventurist. I spent my first morning in laborious self-education at the Ariadneum and the Städel Gallery. I borrowed a catalogue. I wrestled with van der Weyden. I toiled like a galley slave at Maester Wilhelm and Maester Stefan. I have a confused recollection that I saw a number of stiff medieval pictures and an alabaster statue of the lady who smiled as she rode on a tiger, Taken at the beginning of that interesting episode. But the remainder of the institute has faded from my memory. In the afternoon I consoled myself for my Herculean efforts in the direction of culture by going out for a bicycle ride on a hired machine, To which end I decided to devote my pocket money. You will perhaps object here that my conduct was imprudent. To raise that objection is to misunderstand the spirit of these artless adventures. I told you that I set out to go round the world. But to go round the world does not necessarily mean to circumnavigate it. My idea was to go round by easy stages. Seeing the world as I went, As far as I got, And taking as little heed as possible of the morrow. Most of my readers no doubt accept that philosophy of life on Sundays only. On weekdays they swallow the usual contradictory economic platitudes about prudential forethought and the horrid improvidence of the lower classes. For myself, I am not built that way. I prefer to take life in a spirit of pure inquiry. I put on my hat, I saunter where I choose, So far as circumstances permit, And I wait to see what chance will bring me. My ideal is breeziness. The hired bicycle was not a bad machine, As hired bicycles go. It jolted one as little as you can expect from a common hack. It never stopped at a beer garden, And it showed very few signs of having been ridden by beginners with an unconquerable desire to tilt at the hedgerow. So off I soared at once, Heedless of the jeers of Teutonic youth who found the sight of a lady riding a cycle in skirts. A strange one. For in South Germany the rational costume is so universal among women cyclists that tis the skirt that provokes unfavourable comment from those jealous guardians of female propriety, The street boys. I hurried on at a brisk pace past the palm garden and the suburbs, With my loose hair straying on the breeze behind, Till I found myself pedalling at a good round pace on a broad level road which led towards a village by name Fraunheim. As I scurried across the plain, With the wind in my face, Not unpleasantly, I had some dim consciousness of somebody unknown flying after me headlong. My first idea was that Harold Tillington had hunted me down and tracked me to my lair, But gazing back I saw my pursuer was a tall and ungainly man with a straw-coloured moustache, Apparently American, And that he was following me on his machine, Closely watching my action. He had such a cunning expression on his face and seemed so strangely inquisitive, With eyes riveted on my treadles that I didn't quite like the look of him. I put on the pace to see if I could outstrip him, For I am a swift cyclist, But his long legs were too much for me. He did not gain on me, It is true, But neither did I outpace him. Pedalling my very hardest, And I can make good time when necessary, I still kept pretty much at the same distance in front of him, All the way to Fraunheim. Gradually I began to feel sure that the weedy-looking man with the alert face was really pursuing me. When I went faster, He went faster too. When I gave him a chance to pass me, He kept close at my heels, And appeared to be keenly watching the style of my ankle action. I gathered that he was a connoisseur, But why on earth he should persecute me I could not imagine. My spirit was roused now. I pedalled with a will. If I rode all day, I would not let him go past me. Beyond the cobble-paved chief street of Fraunheim, The road took a sharp bend and began to mount the slopes of the Taunus suddenly. It was an abrupt, Steep climb. But I flatter myself, I am a tolerable mountain cyclist. I rode sturdily on. My pursuer darted after me. But on this stiff upward grade, My lightweight and agile ankle action told, I began to distance him. He seemed afraid that I would give him the slip, And called out suddenly with a whoop in English, Stop! Miss! I looked back with dignity, But answered nothing. He put on the pace, Panting. I pedalled away and got clear from him. At a turn of the corner, However, As luck would have it, I was pulled up short by a mounted policeman. He blocked the road with his horse like an ogre, And asked me in a very gruff Swabian voice if this was a licensed bicycle. I had no idea till he spoke that any license was required, Though to be sure I might have guessed it, For modern Germany is studded with notices at all the street corners to inform you in minute detail that everything is forbidden. I stammered out that I did not know. The mounted policeman drew near and inspected me rudely. It is strongly undersaid, He began, But just at that moment my pursuer came up and with American quickness took in the situation. He accosted the policeman in choice bad German. I have two licenses, He said, Producing a handful. The frail lion rides with me. I was too much taken aback at so providential an interposition to contradict this highly imaginative statement. My highwayman had turned into a protecting knight errant of injured innocence. I let the policeman go his way. Then I glanced at my preserver. A very ordinary, Modern St. George, He looked, With no lance to speak of, And no steed but a bicycle. Yet his mien was reassuring. Good morning, Maes, He began. He called me miss every time he addressed me as though he took me for a barmaid. Excuse me, But why did you want to speed her? I thought you were pursuing me, I answered, A little tremulous, I will confess, But avid of incident. And if I was, He went on, You might have conjectured, Miss, It was for our mutual advantage. A businessman don't go out of his way unless he expects to turn an honest dollar, And he don't reckon on other folks going out of theirs unless he knows he can put them in the way of turning an honest dollar with him. That's reasonable, I answered, For I am a political economist. The benefit should be mutual. But I wondered if he was going to propose that sight to me. He looked me all up and down. You're a lady of considerable personal attractions, He said, Musingly, As if he were criticizing a horse. And I want one that sort. That's just why I trailed you, See. Besides which, There's some style about you. Style, I repeated. Yes, He went on, You know how to use your feet, And you have good understandings. Understandings? I gathered from his glance that he referred to my nether limbs. We are all vertebrate animals. Why seek to conceal the fact? I fail to follow you, I answered frigidly, For I really didn't know what the man might say next. That's so, He replied. It was I that followed you. Seems I didn't make much of a job of it either, Anyway. I mounted my machine again. Well, Good morning, I said coldly. I am much obliged for your kind assistance, But your remark was fictitious, And I desire to go on unaccompanied. He held up his hand in warning. You ain't going, He cried, Horrified. You ain't going without hearing me. I mean business, See. Don't chuck away good money like that. I tell you there's dollars in it. In what, I asked, Still moving on, But curious. On the slope, If need were, I could easily distance him. Why, In this cycling of yours, He replied, You're just about the very woman I'm looking for, Miss. Lies, That's what I call you. I can put you in the way of making your pile, I can. This is a bona fide offer. No flies on my business. You decline it, Prejudice injures you, Injures me. Be reasonable, Anyway. I looked round and laughed. Formulate yourself, I said briefly. He rose to it like a man. Meet me at Fraunheim, Corner by the post office, Ten o'clock tomorrow morning, He shouted as I rode off. And if 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 towners 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 frowls 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 frowls. 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 tablidot, And they purred with such content in their middle-aged rotundity that I made up my mind I must take warning bitimes and avoid their temptations to adipose deposit. I prefer to grow upwards. The frowl 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 halfway and rush into your arms, For they know they're true lovers. There were eight blighted frowls 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 ought 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 frowls, 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 him catch 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. Just you wheel away a bit up the hill, He went on, Out of sight of the folks, And I'll fetch her along, Do you? Her? I cried. Who? For the man bewildered me. Why, The wheel, Miss, You understand. This is business, You bet, And you're just 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 bowls 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 machine, He said in an impressive voice, Is propelled 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 mountain 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 1, 2, 3 or 4 as its gradient on the scale, The rider pressed a button on the handlebar with his left hand once, 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 him, ' he said in an eager voice. "'It's geared to run up most anything in creation. ' "'How steep? ' "'One foot and 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 America, ' he said slowly, "'we call it the Great Manitou, Because it can do pretty well what it chooses. "'But in Europe, I'm thinking of calling it the Martin Conway, Or the Wimper, 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 have some going, You, You have. There's money in your feet. You'll give these mine hairs 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, Squirrel. "'It'd run up a tree if 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. Just 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 backpedalling. "'It soars, ' he remarked with enthusiasm. "'Balloons are at discount beside it, ' I answered. "'Now, You wanna know about this business, I guess, ' he went on. "'You wanna know just 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 gonna make your fortune right here. You shall ride her for me on the last day. And if 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 Farada faster. ' "'Perhaps you wonder, ' he put in, "'that with money on it like this, I shouldn't trust the job into the hands of a female? ' I winced, But was silent. "'Well, It's like this, Don't you see? If a female wins, It makes success all the more striking and conspicuous. The world today is ruled by advertisement. I can 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 can 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 professional? ' "'I enlightened him at once as to my position in society, Which was respectable if not lucrative. His face fell somewhat. "'I told eh? Still, You'd run all the same, Wouldn't you? ' he inquired. "'Run? For what? ' I asked innocently. "'Parliament? The Presidency? The Frankfurt 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 towners from Frankfurt 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. It was 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 practiced quietly with the Manitou in sequestered parts of the hills. I also took spells turnabout at the Städel 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, Issuing the fried sausages which the blighted frowls 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 Schillerplatz 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 andered 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 contingencies. 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 advertisement that tells. Just you mark my words, Miss, And don't you make no mistake about it. The world today is governed by advertisement. 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 hair-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 hair-over-superintendent, A bulky official, Came up beside me and perpended visibly. He bent his big brows to it. T'was appalling to observe the measurable amount of Teutonic celebration 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, Hair-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 hair-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 advertisement for the great Manitou, If England and Germany were to make the question into a kaiser's belly. 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, Fraulein Englanderin, The hair-over-superintendent observed, Without prejudice, Waving me into line. He pinned a badge with a large number, Seven, 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 hair 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 Ervige kite, I gave up all for lost. I could never make the running against such practised cyclists. However, We all turned out into the open road, Which leads across the plain and down the main valley, In the direction of Mainz. For the first ten miles or so, It is a dusty level. The surface is perfect, But t'was a blinding white thread. As I toiled along it that roiling 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 if you lose sight of them. Keep your wind. That's the point. The wind. The wind's everything. Let him beat you on the level. You'll catch him up fast enough when you get on the towners. But in spite of his encouragement, I almost lost heart as I saw one after another of my opponent's 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 grey 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, Frow line. Give it up, They cried. You're beaten. Let us pass and get forward. But at the selfsame 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 Host, Nine miles from Frankfurt. 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, Frow line. 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, Grey cloud of dust rolling steadily onward down the hill, Towards Hattersham. I coasted down with my feet up and a slight breeze just calling 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 Hattersham, 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 enclosed 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, Fraulein. 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 machinery. Up, Up, Up. It looked a vertical ascent. The Manitou glided well in its oil bath at its halfway gearing. I rode for dear life. At 16 miles, Lorsbach. At 18, Eppstein. The road still rising. How far ahead the last man? Just round the corner, Fraulein. 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 medieval castle perched high on a craggy rock. I owed it some gratitude, I felt, As I left it behind, For t'was 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 Niederjossbach, 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 Oberjossbach, 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. How far ahead? The first man? Two minutes for our line. 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 peddled away like a machine. The manatee 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? Englanderin? He cried, Darting me a look of unchivalrous dislike, Such as only your sentimental German can cast at a woman. Yes, I am here behind you, Here, Lieutenant, I answered, Putting on a spurt, And I hope next to be before you. He answered not a word, But worked his hardest. So did I. He bent forward. I sat erect on my manatee, Pulling hard at my handles. Now my front wheel was upon him. It reached his pedal. We were abreast. He had a narrow thread of solid path, And he forced me into a runnel. Still, I gained. He swerved. I think he tried to foul me, But the slope was too steep. His attempt recoiled on himself. He ran against the rock at the side and almost overbalanced. That second lost him. I waved my hand as I sailed ahead. Good morning, I cried gaily. See you again at Limburg. From the top of the slope, I put my feet up and flew down into Idstein. A thundershower burst. I was glad of the cool of it. It laid the dust. I regained the high road. From that moment, Save for the risk of sideslips, T'was easy running. Just an undulating line with occasional ups and downs. But I saw no more of my pursuers. Till twenty-two kilometres farther on, I rattled on the cobble-paved causeway into Limburg. I had covered the forty-six miles in quick time for a mountain climb. As I crossed the bridge over the Lahn, To my immense surprise, Mr. Hitchcock waved his arms all excitement to greet me. He had taken the train on from Ebstein, It seemed, And got there before me. As I dismounted at the cathedral, Which was our appointed end, And gave my badge to the soldier, He rushed up and shook my hand. Fifty pounds! He cried. Fifty pounds! How's that for the great Anglo-Saxon race? And hooray for the Manitou! The second man, The civilian, Rode in wet and draggled. Forty seconds later, As for the Herr Lieutenant, A disappointed man, He fell out by the way, Alleging a puncture. I believe he was ashamed to admit the fact that he had been beaten in open fight by the objugated Englander in. So the end of it was, I was now a woman of means, With fifty pounds of my own to my credit. I lunched with my backer royally at the Best Inn in Limburg.