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Updated: June 11, 2025
We're from London, and we're looking for the same man." The policeman, satisfied, stepped back with a clumsy salute and a "Beg pardon, gentlemen," and once more they were off. Ten minutes later, another cyclist, pedaling furiously, rode into the zone of light cast by their head-lamps. A hail brought him to a stop, and Green put a question, explaining who he was.
Down the road the bearded and goggled motorcyclist stopped just in time to avoid observation. To make sure, he drew a pocket field- glass and leveled it ahead. "Wait here," ordered Del Mar. "I'll call when I want you." Back on the road the bearded cyclist could see Del Mar move down the track though he could not hear the directions. It was not necessary, however.
The short, fat cyclist stared blankly for a moment, then with a helpful cry began to scrabble in the road-grit. Whereupon Bert and Edna also scrabbled in the road-grit. Other cyclists arrived, dismounted and stood about, and their flame-lit faces expressed satisfaction, interest, curiosity. "Wet sand," said the short, fat man, scrabbling terribly "wet sand." One joined him.
'I lay I'd get some a' me own back out of 'em. The others laughed, and Harlow was about to make some reply but at that moment a cyclist appeared coming down the hill from the direction of the job. It was Nimrod, so they resumed their journey once more and presently Hunter shot past on his machine without taking any notice of them...
Ruddiman. 'Let me go and serve him do let me! 'But you wouldn't know how, sir. 'If it's beer, and that's most likely, I know well enough. I've watched you so often. I'll go and see. With the face of a schoolboy he ran into the house, and was absent about ten minutes. Then he reappeared, chinking coppers in his hand and laughing gleefully. 'A cyclist! Pint of half-and-half!
With a pendulum-like swoop through the crowd, that sent people flying right and left the grapnel came to earth again, tried for and missed a stout gentleman in a blue suit and a straw hat, smacked away a trestle from under a stall of haberdashery, made a cyclist soldier in knickerbockers leap like a chamois, and secured itself uncertainly among the hind-legs of a sheep which made convulsive, ungenerous efforts to free itself, and was dragged into a position of rest against a stone cross in the middle of the place.
THE ART OF JUGGLING. We may, occasionally, see a cyclist who understands the art of balancing so well that he can, with ease, ride a machine which has only a single wheel; or he can, with a stock bicycle, ride it in every conceivable attitude, and make it perform all sorts of feats.
Not a change passed over Miss Hopkins's features; but she looked up as soon as she was safe on the ground, and smiled. In a moment, before Mrs. Winslow could decide whether to run or to stand her ground, she saw the cyclist approaching on foot. "Won't you come in and sit down?" she said, smiling. "We are trying our new wheels." And because she did not know how to refuse, Mrs.
We stared at them, we laughed at them, we made faces at them, and then a sort of disgust of them came upon us, and we turned away and walked round in front of the cyclist towards the Leas. "Goodness!" cried Gibberne, suddenly; "look there!"
A momentary lean of the bicycle first to the left and then to the right describes what artists call "the line of beauty," in a bight of which the bundle remains behind, crushed in spirit, but unhurt in body. At the bottom of the next hill a small roadside inn greets our cyclist. That which cocks, kittens, dangers, and dogs could not effect, the inn accomplishes. He "slows."
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