Part 9 (2/2)
”It's as bad as an infernal machine.”
”It _is_ an infernal machine,” said Haldane.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
RETRIBUTION--SHARP AND SORE.
”Now I'll race you, Mr Wagram.”
”You'll do nothing of the sort. When I consented to take charge of you--a weighty responsibility in itself--I did so on condition that it was at your own risk. In short, the average railway company couldn't have contracted itself out of its liabilities more completely.”
They were skimming along at the rate of about ten miles an hour, and that on an ideal road, smooth, dustless, and shaded by overhanging woods. Yvonne was trying how far she could ride with both hands off the handlebars, and performing various reckless feats, to the no small anxiety of her escort.
”Slow down here,” said the latter. ”This pace isn't safe; too many rabbits.”
”Too many rabbits?” echoed the girl. Then she gave forth a peal of laughter.
”Yes; it's a screaming joke, isn't it? But it may surprise you to hear that I've known of more than one bad spill caused by a fool of a rabbit dodging under the wheel, especially at night.”
”Really? You're not stuffing me?”
”Well, can't you see for yourself how easily the thing might happen?
They're crossing the road in gangs in both directions, and a rabbit is sometimes as great a fool as a human being in crossing a road, in that it is liable to change its mind and run back again. Result in either case, a bad spill for the bicyclist. You needn't go far for an instance. Saunders, the chemist's a.s.sistant in Ba.s.singham, was nearly killed that way. He was coasting down Swanton Hill in the moonlight, and a rabbit ran under his wheel. He was chucked off, and got concussion of the brain.”
”Fancy being killed by a rabbit!”
”Yes. Sounds funny, doesn't it? Here's Pritchett's.”
They had emerged from the woods into an open road, beside which stood a large farmhouse. The farmer was somewhere about the place; he couldn't be very far off, they were informed. His wife was away, but might be back any minute. Should Mr Pritchett be sent for?
”No, no,” said Wagram; ”just find a boy to show me where he is. I'll go to him. Yvonne, you'd better wait here for me; a rest will do you no harm.”
”All safe. Don't be longer than you can help.”
But Yvonne could not sit still for long, being of a restless temperament. She was soon outside again, and, promptly tiring of the ducks and fowls, she wandered down the shady road they had just come along.
Not far along this she came to a five-barred gate, opening into a broad green lane with high hedges, leading into the wood at right angles to the main road. In these hedges several whitish objects caught her glance.
”Honeysuckles,” she said to herself. ”Beauties, too, if only I can reach them.”
In a moment she had opened the gate and was in the lane. But the coveted blossoms grew high, badly needing the aid of a hooked stick.
She looked around for something approximating to one and found it. Then followed a good deal of scrambling, and at last, hot and flushed and a little scratched, Yvonne made her way back to the gate, trying to reduce into portable size and shape the redundant stems of the fragrant creeper. Being thus intent she did not look up until she had reached the gate, and then with a slight start, for she discovered that she was no longer alone.
Standing on the other side of the gate, but facing her, with both elbows lounged over the top bar, was a pasty-faced, loosely-hung youth, clad in a bicycle suit of cheap build and loud design. This precious product nodded to her with a familiar grin but made no attempt to move.
”Will you make way for me, please? I wish to pa.s.s,” she said crisply.
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