s for a curse or so
at his pipe, and then break out with an entirely different set of tips.

"Avoid running over dogs, Hoopdriver, whatever you do. It's one of
the worst things you can do to run over a dog. Never let the machine
buckle--there was a man killed only the other day through his wheel
buckling--don't scorch, don't ride on the foot-path, keep your own side
of the road, and if you see a tramline, go round the corner at once,
and hurry off into the next county--and always light up before dark. You
mind just a few little things like that, Hoopdriver, and nothing much
can't happen to you--you take my word."

"Right you are!" said Hoopdriver. "Good-night, old man."

"Good-night," said Briggs, and there was silence for a space, save
for the succulent respiration of the pipe. Hoopdriver rode off into
Dreamland on his machine, and was scarcely there before he was pitched
back into the world of sense again.--Something--what was it?

"Never oil the steering. It's fatal," a voice that came from round
a fitful glow of light, was saying. "And clean the chain daily with
black-lead. You mind just a few little things like that--"

"Lord LOVE us!" said Hoopdriver, and pulled the bedclothes over his
ears.

IV. THE RIDING FORTH OF MR. HOOPDRIVER

Only those who toil six long days out of the seven, and all the year
round, save for one brief glorious fortnight or ten days in the summer
time, know the exquisite sensations of the First Holiday Morning. All
the dreary, uninteresting routine drops from you suddenly, your chains
fall about your feet. All at once you are Lord of yourself, Lord of
every hour in the long, vacant day; you may go where you please, call
none Sir or Madame, have a lappel free of pins, doff your black morning
coat, and wear the colour of your heart, and be a Man. You grudge sleep,
you grudge eating, and drinking even, their intrusion on those exquisite
moments. There will be no more rising before breakfast in casual
old clothing, to go dusting and getting ready in a cheerless,
shutter-darkened, wrappered-up shop, no more imperious cries of,
"Forward, Hoopdriver," no more hasty meals, and weary attendance on
fitful old women, for ten blessed days. The first morning is by far
the most glorious, for you hold your whole fortune in your hands.
Thereafter, every night, comes a pang, a spectre, that will not be
exorcised--the premonition of the return. The shadow of going back, of
being put in the cage