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. 'Twas 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 practised
quietly with the Manitou, in sequestered parts of the hills. I also took
spells, turn about, at the Staedel 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, eschewing the fried sausages which the Blighted Fraus 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 Schiller Platz in my
short serge dress and cy