a strict injunction to be a good lad to his mother. The last lift had
been given to an aged wayfarer whose weary and travel-stained appearance
had excited my compassion. No sooner, however, was the machine under
weigh than I discovered, in spite of my will to believe otherwise, that
my passenger was suffering not from fatigue, but from intoxication. To
get rid of him was no easy matter, and the employment of stratagem
became necessary. What the stratagem was, I shall pass over; I will only
say that it was not in accordance with any _recognised_ form of the
categorical imperative. However, the ruse succeeded, and now, as I have
said, the car was empty. Thus were concluded the prolegomena to that
great act of altruism which was to crown the day.

It was in a part of the country consecrated by the genius of a great
novelist (as what part of England is not?) that these things took place.
I found myself in the narrow streets of an ancient town--and it was
market-day. The roadway was thronged with red-faced men and women; and
flocks of sheep, herds of cattle and pigs, provided the motor-cyclist
with a severe probation to the nerves. With much risk to myself, and not
a little to other people, I emerged from this place of danger and
joyfully swept over the bridge into the broad highway beyond the town.

Turning a corner, I became suddenly aware that the road a hundred yards
ahead was again blocked. Two carriers' carts, a brewer's waggon, and
some other miscellaneous vehicles were drawn up anyhow in the road, and
the drivers of these, having descended from their various perches, were
gathered around a figure lying prostrate on the ground. I, too, alighted
and forced my way into the group. In the midst was an old man, his
countenance pallid as death, save where a broad stream of blood pouring
from a gash two inches long, crimsoned his cheek from eye to chin. There
was a great bruise on his temple, and again on the back of his head--for
he had spun round in falling--was a lump the size of a pullet's first
egg.

"'Oss ran away and pitched him on the curb," said one whom I questioned.
"He's dying," said another, "if not already dead." For myself, I turned
sick at the sight; nevertheless, I could not help being struck by the
vigorous actions and attitude of an old woman, who, armed with a bucket
of water and a roller towel, seemed to be not merely bathing his wounds,
but giving the whole man a bath. I also noted the figure of a cle