harris’s one fault—harris and the angel—a patent bicycle lamp—the ideal saddle—the “overhauler”—his eagle eye—his method—his cheery confidence—his simple and inexpensive tastes—his appearance—how to get rid of him—george as prophet—the gentle art of making oneself disagreeable in a foreign tongue—george as a student of human nature—he proposes an experiment—his prudence—harris’s support secured, upon conditions.

on monday afternoon harris came round; he had a cycling paper in his hand.

i said: “if you take my advice, you will leave it alone.”

harris said: “leave what alone?”

i said: “that brand-new, patent, revolution in cycling, record-breaking, tomfoolishness, whatever it may be, the advertisement of which you have there in your hand.”

he said: “well, i don’t know; there will be some steep hills for us to negotiate; i guess we shall want a good brake.”

i said: “we shall want a brake, i agree; what we shall not want is a mechanical surprise that we don’t understand, and that never acts when it is wanted.”

“this thing,” he said, “acts automatically.”

“you needn’t tell me,” i said. “i know exactly what it will do, by instinct. going uphill it will jamb the wheel so effectively that we shall have to carry the machine bodily. the air at the top of the hill will do it good, and it will suddenly come right again. going downhill it will start reflecting what a nuisance it has been. this will lead to remorse, and finally to despair. it will say to itself: ‘i’m not fit to be a brake. i don’t help these fellows; i only hinder them. i’m a curse, that’s what i am;’ and, without a word of warning, it will ‘chuck’ the whole business. that is what that brake will do. leave it alone. you are a good fellow,” i continued, “but you have one fault.”

“what?” he asked, indignantly.

“you have too much faith,” i answered. “if you read an advertisement, you go away and believe it. every experiment that every fool has thought of in connection with cycling you have tried. your guardian angel appears to be a capable and conscientious spirit, and hitherto she has seen you through; take my advice and don’t try her too far. she must have had a busy time since you started cycling. don’t go on till you make her mad.”

he said: “if every man talked like that there would be no advancement made in any department of life. if nobody ever tried a new thing the world would come to a standstill. it is by—”

“i know all that can be said on that side of the argument,” i interrupted. “i agree in trying new experiments up to thirty-five; after thirty-five i consider a man is entitled to think of himself. you and i have done our duty in this direction, you especially. you have been blown up by a patent gas lamp—”

he said: “i really think, you know, that was my fault; i think i must have screwed it up too tight.”

i said: “i am quite willing to believe that if there was a wrong way of handling the thing that is the way you handle it. you should take that tendency of yours into consideration; it bears upon the argument. myself, i did not notice what you did; i only know we were riding peacefully and pleasantly along the whitby road, discussing the thirty years’ war, when your lamp went off like a pistol-shot. the start sent me into the ditch; and your wife’s face, when i told her there was nothing the matter and that she was not to worry, because the two men would carry you upstairs, and the doctor would be round in a minute bringing the nurse with him, still lingers in my memory.”

he said: “i wish you had thought to pick up the lamp. i should like to have found out what was the cause of its going off like that.”

i said: “there was not time to pick up the lamp. i calculate it would have taken two hours to have collected it. as to its ‘going off,’ the mere fact of its being advertised as the safest lamp ever invented would of itself, to anyone but you, have suggested accident. then there was that electric lamp,” i continued.

“well, that really did give a fine light,” he replied; “you said so yourself.”

i said: “it gave a brilliant light in the king’s road, brighton, and frightened a horse. the moment we got into the dark beyond kemp town it went out, and you were summoned for riding without a light. you may remember that on sunny afternoons you used to ride about with that lamp shining for all it was worth. when lighting-up time came it was naturally tired, and wanted a rest.”

“it was a bit irritating, that lamp,” he murmured; “i remember it.”

i said: “it irritated me; it must have been worse for you. then there are saddles,” i went on—i wished to get this lesson home to him. “can you think of any saddle ever advertised that you have not tried?”

he said: “it has been an idea of mine that the right saddle is to be found.”

i said: “you give up that idea; this is an imperfect world of joy and sorrow mingled. there may be a better land where bicycle saddles are made out of rainbow, stuffed with cloud; in this world the simplest thing is to get used to something hard. there was that saddle you bought in birmingham; it was divided in the middle, and looked like a pair of kidneys.”

he said: “you mean that one constructed on anatomical principles.”

“very likely,” i replied. “the box you bought it in had a picture on the cover, representing a sitting skeleton—or rather that part of a skeleton which does sit.”

he said: “it was quite correct; it showed you the true position of the—”

i said: “we will not go into details; the picture always seemed to me indelicate.”

he said: “medically speaking, it was right.”

“possibly,” i said, “for a man who rode in nothing but his bones. i only know that i tried it myself, and that to a man who wore flesh it was agony. every time you went over a stone or a rut it nipped you; it was like riding on an irritable lobster. you rode that for a month.”

“i thought it only right to give it a fair trial,” he answered.

i said: “you gave your family a fair trial also; if you will allow me the use of slang. your wife told me that never in the whole course of your married life had she known you so bad tempered, so un-christian like, as you were that month. then you remember that other saddle, the one with the spring under it.”

he said: “you mean ‘the spiral.’”

i said: “i mean the one that jerked you up and down like a jack-in-the-box; sometimes you came down again in the right place, and sometimes you didn’t. i am not referring to these matters merely to recall painful memories, but i want to impress you with the folly of trying experiments at your time of life.”

he said. “i wish you wouldn’t harp so much on my age. a man at thirty-four—”

“a man at what?”

he said: “if you don’t want the thing, don’t have it. if your machine runs away with you down a mountain, and you and george get flung through a church roof, don’t blame me.”

“i cannot promise for george,” i said; “a little thing will sometimes irritate him, as you know. if such an accident as you suggest happen, he may be cross, but i will undertake to explain to him that it was not your fault.”

“is the thing all right?” he asked.

“the tandem,” i replied, “is well.”

he said: “have you overhauled it?”

i said: “i have not, nor is anyone else going to overhaul it. the thing is now in working order, and it is going to remain in working order till we start.”

i have had experience of this “overhauling.” there was a man at folkestone; i used to meet him on the lees. he proposed one evening we should go for a long bicycle ride together on the following day, and i agreed. i got up early, for me; i made an effort, and was pleased with myself. he came half an hour late: i was waiting for him in the garden. it was a lovely day. he said:—

“that’s a good-looking machine of yours. how does it run?”

“oh, like most of them!” i answered; “easily enough in the morning; goes a little stiffly after lunch.”

he caught hold of it by the front wheel and the fork and shook it violently.

i said: “don’t do that; you’ll hurt it.”

i did not see why he should shake it; it had not done anything to him. besides, if it wanted shaking, i was the proper person to shake it. i felt much as i should had he started whacking my dog.

he said: “this front wheel wobbles.”

i said: “it doesn’t if you don’t wobble it.” it didn’t wobble, as a matter of fact—nothing worth calling a wobble.

he said: “this is dangerous; have you got a screw-hammer?”

i ought to have been firm, but i thought that perhaps he really did know something about the business. i went to the tool shed to see what i could find. when i came back he was sitting on the ground with the front wheel between his legs. he was playing with it, twiddling it round between his fingers; the remnant of the machine was lying on the gravel path beside him.

he said: “something has happened to this front wheel of yours.”

“it looks like it, doesn’t it?” i answered. but he was the sort of man that never understands satire.

he said: “it looks to me as if the bearings were all wrong.”

i said: “don’t you trouble about it any more; you will make yourself tired. let us put it back and get off.”

he said: “we may as well see what is the matter with it, now it is out.” he talked as though it had dropped out by accident.

before i could stop him he had unscrewed something somewhere, and out rolled all over the path some dozen or so little balls.

“catch ’em!” he shouted; “catch ’em! we mustn’t lose any of them.” he was quite excited about them.

we grovelled round for half an hour, and found sixteen. he said he hoped we had got them all, because, if not, it would make a serious difference to the machine. he said there was nothing you should be more careful about in taking a bicycle to pieces than seeing you did not lose any of the balls. he explained that you ought to count them as you took them out, and see that exactly the same number went back in each place. i promised, if ever i took a bicycle to pieces i would remember his advice.

i put the balls for safety in my hat, and i put my hat upon the doorstep. it was not a sensible thing to do, i admit. as a matter of fact, it was a silly thing to do. i am not as a rule addle-headed; his influence must have affected me.

he then said that while he was about it he would see to the chain for me, and at once began taking off the gear-case. i did try to persuade him from that. i told him what an experienced friend of mine once said to me solemnly:—

“if anything goes wrong with your gear-case, sell the machine and buy a new one; it comes cheaper.”

he said: “people talk like that who understand nothing about machines. nothing is easier than taking off a gear-case.”

i had to confess he was right. in less than five minutes he had the gear-case in two pieces, lying on the path, and was grovelling for screws. he said it was always a mystery to him the way screws disappeared.

we were still looking for the screws when ethelbertha came out. she seemed surprised to find us there; she said she thought we had started hours ago.

he said: “we shan’t be long now. i’m just helping your husband to overhaul this machine of his. it’s a good machine; but they all want going over occasionally.”

ethelbertha said: “if you want to wash yourselves when you have done you might go into the back kitchen, if you don’t mind; the girls have just finished the bedrooms.”

she told me that if she met kate they would probably go for a sail; but that in any case she would be back to lunch. i would have given a sovereign to be going with her. i was getting heartily sick of standing about watching this fool breaking up my bicycle.

common sense continued to whisper to me: “stop him, before he does any more mischief. you have a right to protect your own property from the ravages of a lunatic. take him by the scruff of the neck, and kick him out of the gate!”

but i am weak when it comes to hurting other people’s feelings, and i let him muddle on.