addle.

Yet you must not think that because Mr. Hoopdriver was a little
uncomfortable, he was unhappy in the slightest degree. In the background
of his consciousness was the sense that about this time Briggs would be
half-way through his window dressing, and Gosling, the apprentice, busy,
with a chair turned down over the counter and his ears very red, trying
to roll a piece of huckaback--only those who have rolled pieces of
huckaback know quite how detestable huckaback is to roll--and the shop
would be dusty and, perhaps, the governor about and snappy. And here was
quiet and greenery, and one mucked about as the desire took one,
without a soul to see, and here was no wailing of "Sayn," no folding of
remnants, no voice to shout, "Hoopdriver, forward!" And once he almost
ran over something wonderful, a little, low, red beast with a yellowish
tail, that went rushing across the road before him. It was the first
weasel he had ever seen in his cockney life. There were miles of this,
scores of miles of this before him, pinewood and oak forest, purple,
heathery moorland and grassy down, lush meadows, where shining rivers
wound their lazy way, villages with square-towered, flint churches,
and rambling, cheap, and hearty inns, clean, white, country towns, long
downhill stretches, where one might ride at one's ease (overlooking a
jolt or so), and far away, at the end of it all,--the sea.

What mattered a fly or so in the dawn of these delights? Perhaps he had
been dashed a minute by the shameful episode of the Young Lady in Grey,
and perhaps the memory of it was making itself a little lair in a corner
of his brain from which it could distress him in the retrospect by
suggesting that he looked like a fool; but for the present that trouble
was altogether in abeyance. The man in drab--evidently a swell--had
spoken to him as his equal, and the knees of his brown suit and the
chequered stockings were ever before his eyes. (Or, rather, you could
see the stockings by carrying the head a little to one side.) And to
feel, little by little, his mastery over this delightful, treacherous
machine, growing and growing! Every half-mile or so his knees reasserted
themselves, and he dismounted and sat awhile by the roadside.

It was at a charming little place between Esher and Cobham, where a
bridge crosses a stream, that Mr. Hoopdriver came across the other
cyclist in brown. It is well to notice the fact here, although the
interview was of the