ne might--" Peter had made a suggestion of his own--"ride a motor
bicycle. I saw a man on one to-day; I mean he had been on it--it was on
him at the moment; it had chucked him off and was dancing on him, and
something that smelt was coming out of a hole. He was such a long way
from home; I was sorry about it."

His friend had said, "Serve him right. Brute," expressing the general
feeling of the moment about men who rode motor bicycles.

"Isn't it funny," Peter had reflectively said. "They must get such an
awful headache first--and then to be chucked off and jumped on so hard,
and covered with the smelly stuff--and then to have to walk home dragging
it, when it's deformed and won't run on its wheels. Unless, of course,
one is blown up into little bits and is at rest.... But it is so awfully,
frightfully ugly, to look at and to smell and to hear. Like your
wallpaper, you know."

Peter's eyes had rested contentedly on his own peaceful green walls. He
really hadn't felt in the least like "going in for" anything, either
motor bicycling or examinations.

"I suppose you'll just footle, then," his friend had summed it up, and
left him, because it was half-past six, and they had dinner at that
strange hour. That was why they were able to run it into their tea,
since obviously nothing could be done between, even by Peter's energetic
friend. This friend had little hope for Peter. Of course, he would just
footle; he always had. But one was, nevertheless, rather fond of him.
One would like him to do things, and have a sporting time.

As a matter of fact, Peter gave his friend an agreeable surprise. He went
in, or attempted to go in, for a good many things. He plunged ardently
into football, though he had never been good, and though he always got
extremely tired over it, which was supposed to be bad for him, and
frequently got smashed up, which he knew to be unpleasant for him. This
came to an abrupt end half way through the term. Then he took, quite
suddenly, to motor bicycling. All this is merely to say that the
incalculable factor that sets temperament and natural predilection at
nought had entered into Peter's life. Of course, it was absurd. Urquhart,
being what he was, could successfully do a number of things that Peter,
being what _he_ was, must inevitably come to grief over. But still he
indomitably tried. He even profaned the roads and outraged all aesthetic
fitness in the endeavour, clacking into the country upon a hired