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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the
cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch," from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day.

Edited by J. A. Hammerton

MR. PUNCH AWHEEL

Owner of violently palpitating motor car. "There's no
need to be alarmed. It will be all right as soon as I've discovered the
what-d'ye-call-it!"

MR. PUNCH AWHEEL.

THE HUMOURS OF MOTORING AND CYCLING.

AS PICTURED BY

THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

The Punch Library of Humour

EDITOR'S NOTE.

Among the characteristics which are essentially British, is the tendency
to receive almost any innovation, be it a new style of dress or a new
method of locomotion, with some degree of distrust which shows itself in
satirical criticism; to be followed soon after by the acceptance of the
accomplished fact and complete approval. In this trait of our national
character, as in all others, Mr. Punch proves himself a true born
Britisher. When the bicycle was first coming into popularity, he seemed
rather to resent the innovation, and was more ready to see the less
attractive side of cycling than its pleasures and its practical
advantages. So, too, with the automobile. Only recently has Mr. Punch
shown some tendency to become himself an enthusiast of the whirling
wheel.

This diffidence in joining the ranks of the cyclists or the motorists is
due entirely to Mr. Punch's goodness of heart and his genuine British
love of liberty. The cycling scorcher and the motoring road-hog are two
abominations which he most naturally holds in the greatest contempt.
Against them he is never tired of directing his most scathing satire;
but while this is entirely praiseworthy it tends a little to give a
false impression of his attitude towards two of the most delightful
sports which modern ingenuity has invented. After all, the scorcher and
the road-hog are the least representative followers of the sports which
their conduct brings into question, and it is very easy to over-estimate
their importance.

For that reason, in the compiling of the present volume the editor has
endeavoured to make a selection which will show Mr. Punch in his real
attitude towards motoring and cycling, in which, of course, it is but
natural and all to our delight that he should see chiefly their humours,
so largely the result of misadventure. But as he has long since ceased
to jibe at the lady who cycles or to regard male cyclists as "cads on
castors,"—in the phrase of Edmund Yates,—and ceased also to view the
motor car as an ingenious device for public slaughter, his adverse views
have not in the present volume been unduly emphasised.

MR. PUNCH AWHEEL

ENTERPRISING PRO-MOTOR.

One of our special correspondents started out to try the effect of
taking notes from his motor-car whilst proceeding at top-speed. The
experiment took place in June; but we have only just received the
following account of the result.

"Started away and turned on full head of smell—steam, I mean. Over
Southwark Bridge, fizz, kick, bang, rattle! Flew along Old Kent Road;
knocked down two policemen on patrol duty ('Knocked 'em in the Old Kent
Road'); fizzed on through New Cross and Lewisham at awful
nerve-destroying, sobbing pace, 'toot toot-ing' horn all the way. No
good, apparently, to some people, who would not, or possibly could
not, get out of the way. Cannoned milk-cart entering Eltham village, ran
into 'bus, but shot off it again, at a tangent, up on to the footpath,
frightening old lady into[Pg 8] hysterics. Onwards we went, leaping and
flying past everything on the road, into open country. Ran over dog and
three chickens, and saw tandem horses take fright and bolt; dust flew,
people yelled at us and we yelled at people. Came round sharp corner on
to donkey standing in road. 'Boosted' him up into the air and saw him
fall through roof of outhouse! Whirr-r-up! bang! rattle! fizz-izz—Bust!

"Where am I?—Oh, in hospital—oh, really?—Seems nice clean sort of
place.—How long——? Oh, been here about six weeks—have I, really? And
what——? Oh, both arms, you say?—and left leg? Ah—by the way, do
you know anyone who wants to buy a motor——? What, no motor left?—By
Jove! that's funny, isn't it?—Well, I think I'll go to sleep again
now."

Ethel (with book). "What's an autocrat, Mabel?"

Mabel. "Person who drives an auto-car, of course, silly."

The Best Lubricant for Cycles.—Castor oil.

"Wouldn't yer like ter 'ave one o' them things, Liza
Ann?"

"No. I wouldn't be seen on one. I don't think they're nice for lidies!"

MOTOR QUESTIONS

FICKLE FORTUNE

"And only yesterday I was fined five pounds for driving at excessive
speed!"

IN DORSETSHIRE

Fair Cyclist. "Is this the way to Wareham, please?"

Native. "Yes, miss, yew seem to me to ha' got 'em on all right!"

So Unselfish!—"Oh yes, I gave my husband a motor-car on his birthday."

"But I thought he didn't like motor-cars!"

"He doesn't. But I do!"

Q. Why is the lady bikist of an amorous disposition?

A. Because she is a sigh-cling creature.

Crowded Out.—Stage-struck Coster (to his
dark-coloured donkey). "Othello, Othello, your occupation 'll soon be
gone!"

HINTS FOR BIKING BEGINNERS

1. Insure your life and limbs. The former will benefit your relations,
the latter yourself.

2. Learn on a hired machine. The best plan is to borrow a machine from a
friend. It saves hiring. Should the tyre become punctured, the brake be
broken, the bell cracked, the lamp missing, and the gear out of gear,
you will return it as soon as possible, advising your friend to provide
himself with a stronger one next time.

3. Practise on some soft and smooth ground. For example, on a lawn; the
one next door for choice. A muddy road, although sufficiently soft, is
not recommended—the drawbacks are obvious.

4. Choose a secluded place for practising. It may at first sight appear
somewhat selfish to deprive your neighbours of a gratuitous performance
which would be certain to amuse them. Nevertheless, be firm.

5. Get someone to hold you on. Engage a friend in an interesting
conversation while you[Pg 16] mount your bicycle. Do you remember Mr.
Winkle's dialogue with Sam Weller when he attempted skating? You can
model your conversation on this idea. Friend will support you while you
ride and talk. Keep him at it. It will be excellent exercise for him,
physically and morally. Also economical for you; as, otherwise, you
would have to pay a runner.

6. Don't bike; trike.

A New Terror.—Johnson. Hullo, Thompson, you look peekish. What's
wrong?

Thompson. The vibration of motor-carring has got on my liver.

Johnson. I see, automobilious!

On the Brighton Road.—Cyclist (to owner of dog over which he has
nearly ridden). Take your beast out of my way! What right has he here?

Owner. Well, he pays seven and sixpence a year for the privilege of
perambulation, and you pay nothing!

The Very Oldest Motor-Car.—The whirligig of time.

"Hi! Whip behind!"

"Yah! 'E ain't got none!"

Adding Insult to Injury.—Tramp Photographer. "Now,
sir, just as you are for a shillin'!" [And little Binks, who prides
himself upon his motor driving, is trying his best to get his wife to
promise not to tell anyone about the smash.]

A QUESTION OF ETIQUETTE

Dear Mr. Punch,—Knowing you to be a past master in the art of courtesy,
I venture to submit the following hard case to your judgment. The other
morning, being a none too experienced cyclist, I ventured into the Park
on my "wheel" at an early hour, thinking to have a little practice
unobserved. Judge of my horror when, as I was wobbling along, I was
suddenly confronted by the Duchess of Xminster and her daughters, all
expert riders! Her Grace and the Ladies Wiseacre bowed to me in the most
affable way, but, afraid to leave go of the handles of my machine, I
could only NOD in return. And I have always been renowned for the
elegance with which I remove my chapeau! These noble ladies have since
cut me dead. I cannot blame them, but I venture to suggest, for your
approval, that the raising of the right elbow, such as is practised by
coachmen, gentle and simple, should be adopted by all cyclists. I think
that I could manage the movement.

Yours in social despair,

Amelius Ambergris

Bayswater.

Cow-boy (to young lady who has taken refuge). "Would
you mind openin' the gate, miss? They're a-comin' in there."

An admirable improvement in motor-cars is about to be introduced by one
of our leading firms. Cars are frequently overturned, and the occupants
buried underneath. In future, on the bottom of every car made by the
firm in question there will be engraved the words, "Here lies——,"
followed by a blank space, which can be filled up by the purchaser.

He. "Do you belong to the Psychical Society?"

She. "No; but I sometimes go out on my brother's machine!"

Wheel and Woe.—A Brooklyn inventor has patented a
cycle-hearse.

Unlicensed Pedallers.—Cyclists.

TO MARIE, RIDING MY BICYCLE

A Suggestion in Nomenclature.—The old name of "Turnpike Roads" has,
long ago, with the almost universal disappearance of the ancient
turnpikes, become obsolete. Nowadays, bicycles being "always with us,"
why not for "Turnpike Roads" substitute "Turn-bike roads"? This ought to
suit the "B. B. P.," or "Bicycling British Public."

"Oh, did you see a gentleman on a bicycle as you came up?"

"No; but I saw a man sitting at the bottom of the hill mending an old
umbrella!"

THAT BICYCLE LAMP

The other Sunday afternoon I rode over on my bicycle to see the
Robinsons. They live seven miles away. Tomkins and others were there.
People who live in remote country places always seem pleased to see a
fellow creature, but Robinson and his wife are unusually hospitable and
good-natured. After I had had some tea, and thought of leaving, a
hobnail was discovered in the tyre of Tomkin's bicycle. He, being very
athletic, was playing croquet, a game which requires vast muscular
strength. However, he said that his tyres were something quite new, and
that in one minute one man, or even one child, could stick one
postage-stamp, or anything of the sort, over that puncture and mend it.
So all the rest of us and the butler, principally the butler, who is an
expert in bicycles, went at it vigorously, and after we had all worked
for nearly an hour the tyre was patched up, and Tomkins, having finished
his game, rode coolly away. I was going to do the same, but Robinson
wouldn't hear of it—I must[Pg 26]
stay to dinner. I said I had no lamp for riding home in the dark. He
would lend me his. I said I should have to dine in knickerbockers. That
didn't matter in the country. So I stayed till 9.30.

The next Sunday I rode over again. I started directly after lunch, lest
I should seem to have come to dinner, and I gave the butler that lamp
directly I arrived. But it was all no good, for I stayed till 10, and
had to borrow it again. "Bring it back to-morrow morning," said
Robinson, "and help us with our hay-making." Again dined in
knickerbockers.

On Monday I resolved to be firm. I would leave by daylight. Rode over
early. After some indifferent hay-making and some excellent lunch, I
tried to start. No good. Robinson carried me off to a neighbour's
tennis-party. After we returned from that, he said I must have some
dinner. Couldn't ride home all those seven miles starving.
Knickerbockers didn't matter. Again dined there and rode home at 10.30.

So I still have Robinson's lamp. Now I want to know how I am going to
get it back to his house.

If I have it taken by anybody else he will think I don't care to come,
which would be quite a mistake. Have vowed that I will not dine there
again except in proper clothes. If I cross his hospitable threshold,
even before breakfast, I shall never get away before bedtime. Can't ride
seven miles in evening dress before breakfast even in the country.
Besides, whatever clothes I wore, I should never be able to leave by
daylight. I should still have his lamp. Can't take a second lamp. Would
look like inviting myself to dinner. So would the evening clothes at
breakfast. What is to be done?

The Retort Curteous.—Motorist (cheerfully—to
fellow-guest in house party). "What luck? Killed anything?"

Angler (bitterly). "No. Have you?"

Vicar's Daughter. "Oh, Withers, your mistress tells me
you are saving up to take a little shop and look after your mother. I
think it is such a sweet idea!"

Withers. "Well, yes, miss, I did think of it; but now I've got the
money I've changed my mind, and I'm going to buy myself one of these
'ere bicycles instead!"

A STORY WITHOUT WORDS

The Inference.—Giles (who has been rendering "first
aid" to wrecked motor-cyclist). "Naw, marm, I doan't think as 'e be a
married man, 'cos 'e says this be the worst thing wot 'as ever
'appened to un!"

SAVING THE SITUATION

Effie (to whom a motor-brougham is quite a novelty). "Oh, mummy
dear, look! There's a footman and a big coachman on the box, and there
isn't a horse or even a pony! What are they there for?"

Mummy dear (not well versed in electricity and motor-mechanism).
"Well, you see, Effie dear—the—(by a happy inspiration) but, dear,
you're not old enough to understand."

The Daily Mail has discovered that the "Motor-Cough" is "caused by the
minute particles of dust raised by motor-cars which lodge themselves in
the laryngeal passage." If people will use their gullets as garages,
what can they expect?

Horsey Wag (to Mr. and Mrs. Tourey, who are walking up
a hill). "And do you always take your cycles with you when you go for a
walk?"

In East Dorsetshire.—Cyclist (to Native). How many miles am I from
Wimborne?

  Native. I dunno.

  Cyclist. Am I near Blandford?

  Native. I dunno.

  Cyclist (angrily). Then what do you know?

  Native. I dunno.

    [Cyclist speeds to No Man's Land in the New Forest.

OUR BARTERERS

Bicycle.—Thoroughly heavy, lumbering, out-of-date machine, recently
doctored up to look like new, for sale. Cost, second-hand, six years
ago, £4. Will take £12 for it. Bargain. Would suit a dyspeptic giant, or
a professional strong man in want of violent exercise.

Safety Cycle.—Pneumatic tyres. A real beauty. Makers well known in
Bankruptcy Court. Owner giving up riding in consequence of the frame
being thoroughly unsafe, and the tyres constantly bursting. Would
exchange for one of Broadwood's grand pianos or a freehold house in the
country.

The ? of the Day.—Should there be a speed (and dust)
limit?

The Queen's Highway.—Infuriated Cyclist (after a collision with a
fast-trotting dog-cart). I shall summon you to-morrow! I've as much
right on the road as you, Jehu!

Irate Driver. And I shall summon you! This thoroughfare's mine as
well as yours, let me tell you, Scorcher!

Pedestrian (who has been nearly killed by the collision, and is lying
prostrate after being cannoned on to the path, very feebly). And what
about me, gentlemen? Have I any right of way?

The constant strain of driving motor-cars is said to be responsible for
a form of nervous break-down which shows a decided tendency to increase.
One certainly comes across a number of cars afflicted in this way.

Old Lady (describing a cycling accident). "'E 'elped
me hup, an' brushed the dust orf on me, an' put five shillin' in my
'and, an' so I says, 'Well, sir, I'm sure you're hactin' like a
gentleman,' I says, 'though I don't suppose you are one,' I says."

A motor-car, proceeding along the High Street the other evening, took
fright, it is supposed, at a constable on point-to-point duty, and
exploded, blowing the occupants in various directions over the adjoining
buildings. The policeman is to be congratulated upon averting what might
have been a serious accident.

A well-known motorist has been complaining of the campaign waged against
motor-cars by humorous artists, who never seem to tire of depicting
accidents. "One common and ludicrous error in many drawings," he said,
"is the placing of the driver on the wrong side of the car." But surely,
in an accident, that is just where he would find himself.

Sympathetic Lady. "I hope you had a good holiday, Miss Smith."

Overworked Dressmaker. "Oh yes, my lady. I took my machine with me,
you know!"

S. L. "What a pity; you should give up needle and thread when you're
out for a——"

O. D. "Oh, I don't mean my sewing machine! I refer to my bicycle!"

Scene—A remote district in the Wolds.

Driver of Motor-car (who has just pulled up in response to urgent
summons from countrywoman). "Well, what's the matter? What is it?"

Countrywoman. "Hi, man, look! You've been an' left yer 'oss on the
'ill!"

THE CYCLING GOVERNESS

WOE ON THE WHEEL.

Winny (one mile an hour) to Annie (two miles an
hour). "Scorcher!"

The Favourite of the Motor-Cars.—Petroleum.

In England, says a French writer, motoring is not considered a sport
because it does not involve killing anything. This is but one more
example of Continental aspersion.

As a result of his trip over the Gordon-Bennett course, the Roman
Catholic Archbishop of Dublin now recommends the motor-car for pastoral
visits. This will be no new thing. For years past some people have
looked on the motor-car in the light of a visitation.

Cycling Conundrum.—Q. What article of the cyclist girl's attire do a
couple of careless barbers recall to mind?

A. A pair of nickers.

Motorists are still expressing their indignation at a recent disgraceful
incident when one of their number, because he could not pay a fine at
once, was taken to prison, and forced to don ugly convict garb in the
place of his becoming goggles and motor coat.

Engineer. "There's certainly a screw loose somewhere."

Simple Simon (with gleeful satisfaction). "He-he! I knaws where 't
be too!"

Car Owner (intensely interested). "What do you mean, boy?"

Simple Simon. "He-he! Why I've got 'un! All the folks say as 'ow I've
got a screw loose somewheres!"

WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

Dialogue between two Young Gentlemen, dressed in Knickerbocker
Suits, Gaiters, and Golf caps. They have the indescribable air which
proclaims the votary of the "Bike."

First Young Gentleman. Yes; I certainly agree with the French view of
it. Cycling shouldn't be indulged in without care.

Second Y. G. They say in Paris that no one should become an habitual
cyclist without "medical authorisation."

First Y. G. Yes. Quite right. Then, when you are permitted, you ought
to travel at a moderate pace. About five miles an hour is quite enough
for a beginner.

Second Y. G. Enough! Why, too much! You can't be too careful! Then, if
you break off for a time, you ought to begin all over again. You should
"gradually acquire speed"; not rush at it!

First Y. G. Certainly. I read in the Lancet only the other day that
merely increasing the pace of a bike a couple of miles an hour was
sufficient to send up the normal pulse to 150!

Second Y. G. Most alarming! And yet I can see from your costume you
are a cyclist.

First Y. G. Not at all. I am pleased with the costume, and, like
yourself, have adopted it. Now do not laugh at me. But, between
ourselves, I have never been on a bicycle in my life!

Second Y. G. No more have I!

[Curtain.

The provincial journal which, the other day, published the following
paragraph:—"Private letters from Madagascar state that two cyclists
have visited the island, causing the loss of 200 lives and immense
damage to property," and followed it up with a leader virulently
attacking motor-cyclists, now informs us that the word should have been
"cyclones." The printer has been warned.

"Anti-Motor" writes to point out that one advantage of holding motor
races like those that have just taken place in Ireland is that after
each race there are fewer motors.

The Trail of the Motor.—"COLLECTOR.

Young man wants collecting."—Advt. in Provincial Paper.

"Enough is as good as a Feast."—Nervous Lady Cyclist.
"I hope it isn't very deep here."

Ferryman. "Sax hunderd an' fefty-nine feet, Miss."

Old Farmer Jones (who has been to a local cattle-show,
and seen a horseless carriage for the first time). "Mosher carsh may be
all very well—(hic!)—but they can't find 'er way home by
'emshelves!"

SHOULD MOTORISTS WEAR MASKS?

["Plus de lunettes spéciales pour MM. les chauffeurs. Ils devront
conduire comme les cochers ordinaires à yeux nus ou avec les
lunettes ordinaires de myopes ou de presbytes. Nos sportsmen
déclarent que ces lunettes de motoristes favorisent l'anonymat. Ces
lunettes sont de véritables masques. On fait sous ce masque ce qu'on
n'oserait pas faire à visage découvert. En France il est défendu de
se masquer en dehors du temps de carnaval ... si le masque tombe, la
vitesse des motors deviendra fatalement normale."—M. N. de Noduwez
in the "Times."]

Mr. Punch has collected a few brief opinions upon the subject of the
above-quoted letter.

Mr. Kipling writes: "Through dirt, sweat, burns, bursts, smells, bumps,
breakdowns, and explosions I have attained to the perfect joy of the
scorcher. I have suffered much on the southern British highways. My
Tibetan devil-mask shall therefore add to their terrors. Besides, I wore
gig-lamps at school. What do they know of Sussex who only Burwash know?"

Mr. Beerbohm Tree telephones: "The most
beautiful of all arts is that of make-up. We cannot all resemble
Caliban, but why should not the motorist aspire in that direction?
[Pg 48]
Life is but a masque, and all roads lead to 'His Majesty's.'"

Miss Marie Corelli telegraphs: "I am all for anonymity and everything
that tends to the avoidance of advertisement. If people must ride in
motors, let them have the decency to disguise themselves as effectually
as possible, and shun all contact with their kind."

Mr. Jem Smith, cabdriver, in the course of an interview, said: "Masks?
Not 'arf! Let 'em out on the Fifth of November, and throw a match in
their oil-tanks—that's what I'd do! I'd anonymous the lot of 'em!"

Policeman XX. (in the rôle of a labourer behind a hedge on the
Brighton road): "'Oo are you a-gettin' at? Do you see any mote in my
eye? If you want to know the time, I've a stop-watch!"

Enthusiastic Motorist (to Perfect Stranger). I swear by petrol,
sir; always use it myself. Now what, may I ask, do you use?

Perfect Stranger. Oats!

Division of Labour.—It is not the business of ducal
footmen to clean the family bicycles. The ladies Ermyntrude and
Adelgitha have to do it themselves.

Juggernautical.—Unfortunate Cyclist (who has been
bowled over by motor-car). "Did you see the number?"

Jarge. "Yes, there was three on 'em. Two men and a woman."

EXPECTATION.—The Browns welcoming the Robinsons (awfully
jolly people, don't you know,) from whom they have had a letter saying
that they will arrive early in the day by motor.

REALISATION.—The Browns, when the arrivals have removed
their motor glasses, etc., disclosing not the Robinsons, but those awful
bores, the Smiths.

THERE WAS A NEW WOMAN

THE PACE THAT KILLS

Life's Little Ironies.—

Motorist. "Conductor! How can I strike the Harrow road?"

Conductor. "'Arrer road? Let's see. Second to right, third to—it's a
good way, sir. I tell 'ee, sir. Just follow that green bus over there;
that'll take you right to it!"

WONDERS ON WHEELS

Wonder if my doctor was right in ordering me to take this sort of
exercise.

Wonder whether I look very absurd while accepting the assistance of an
attendant who walks by my side and keeps me from falling by clutches at
my waistbelt.

Wonder whether it would have been better to go to Hyde Park instead of
Battersea.

Wonder whether the policeman, the postman, the nurse with the
perambulator, the young lady reading the novel, and the deck passengers
on the passing steamboat are laughing at me.

Wonder whether I shall keep on now that my attendant has let go.

Wonder whether the leading wheel will keep straight on until we have
passed that lamp-post.

Wonder whether the next spill I have will be less painful than the last.

Wonder why mats are not laid down by the[Pg 56]
County Council in the roads for the comfort of falling cyclists.

Wonder why the cycle suddenly doubled up and landed me in the gutter.

Wonder whether the pretty girl in the hat, whose face is hidden by a
novel, smiled at my misadventure.

Wonder whether the person who has just come to grief over yonder is
using good language or words of an inferior quality.

Wonder whether my attendant is right in urging me to remount and have
another try.

Wonder whether I look well wobbling.

Wonder whether the elderly spinster with the anxious manner and air of
determination is really enjoying herself.

Wonder whether, when I have completed my first hour, I shall want
another.

Wonder whether the imp of a boy will run with me.

Wonder whether my second fall in five minutes beats the record.

Wonder, considering the difficulty of progressing half a dozen paces in
as many minutes, how those marvellous feats are performed at Olympia.

Wonder if I shall ever advance upon my present rate of speed, i.e.,
three-quarters of a mile an hour.

Wonder, finally, if the placards warning cyclists in Battersea Park
against the dangers of "furious riding" can possibly be posted for my
edification.

Unwilling to give up horses altogether, Captain Pelham
effected a compromise. His first appearance in the park created quite a
sensation.

FLATTERY—WITH AN OBJECT

Jocasta (with an axe of her own to grind, ingratiatingly). "Oh yes,
papa, it does suit you. I never saw you look so nice in anything
before!"

THE SCORCHER

RHYME FOR RECORD-MAKERS

Mems for Motorists.—If your car suddenly appears to drag
heavily, you may be sure there is something to account for it.

"Have you ever tried riding without the handles? It's delightfully easy, all but the corners."

!!!

So it seems!

BROKEN ON THE WHEEL

First Lesson.—Held on by instructor, a tall, muscular young man.
Thought it was so easy. Cling for dear life to handle, as beginners in
horsemanship cling to the reins. Instructor says I must not. Evidently
cannot hold on by my knees. Ask him what I am to hold on by. "Nothing,"
he says. How awful! Feel suspended in the air. That is what I ought to
be. At present am more on ground; anyway one foot down. Even when in
movement position of feet uncertain. Go a few yards, supported. Muscular
instructor rather hot and tired, but says civilly, "You're getting on
nicely, sir." At this get off unexpectedly, and, when I am picked up,
reply, "Very likely," only my feet were off the pedals all the time.
Then rest, and watch little children riding easily. One pretty girl.
Wonder whether she laughed at me. Probably. Shall have another try.

Second Lesson.—Held on by another instructor, who urges me "to put
more life into it." Hope it won't be the death of me. Work in a manner
which even the treadmill, I imagine,[Pg 64] could not necessitate, and get the
wheel round a few times. Painful wobbling. Instructor says I must pedal
more quickly. Can't. Rest a minute. Panting. Awfully hot. Observe little
children going round comfortably. Pretty girl here again, looking as
fresh and cool as possible. Suddenly manage to ride three yards
unsupported. Then collapse. But am progressing. Shall come again soon.

Third Lesson.—Endeavour to get on alone. Immediately get off on other
side. Nearly upset the pretty girl. Polite self-effacement impossible
when one is at the mercy of a mere machine. After a time manage better.
And at last get started and ride alone for short distances. Always
tumble off ignominiously just as I meet the pretty girl. Instructor
urges me to break the record. Hope I shan't break my neck. Finally go
all round the ground. Triumph! Pretty girl seems less inclined to laugh.
Delightful exercise, bicycle riding! Shall come again to-morrow.

Fourth Lesson.—High north-east wind. Hot sun. Regular May weather.
Clouds of coal-dust from track. Pretty girl not there at all. Start
confidently. Endeavour to knock down a wall. Wall does not suffer much.
Start again. Faster this time. The pretty girl has just come. Will show
what I can do now. Career over large hole. Bicycle sinks, and then takes
a mighty leap. Unprepared for this. Am cast into the air. Picked up.
Can't stand. Something broken. Doctor will say what. Anyhow, clothes
torn, bruised, disheartened. Dare not catch the eye of pretty girl.
Carried home. Shall give up bicycle riding. Awful fag, and no fun.

The perils of Cycling.—(A sketch in Battersea Park.)

Angelina. "Come along, dear!"

MOTORING PHENOMENA—AND HOW TO READ THE SIGNS

In its "Hints for Bicyclists," Home Chat says: "A little fuller's
earth dusted inside the stockings, socks and gloves, keeps the feet
cool." Nothing, however, is said of the use of rubber soles as a
protection against sunstroke.

Overheard at a Motor Meeting.—

Inquirer. "I wonder what they call those large, long cars?"

Well-informed Friend. "Those? Oh, I believe those are the Flying
Kilometres, a French make."

People who are in favour of increasing the rates—Motorists.

The Squire. "But I tell you, sir, this road is private,
and you shall not pass except over my prostrate body!"

Cyclist. "All right, guv'nor, I'll go back. I've done enough hill
climbing already!"

THE MORAL BIKE

Truth has discovered that temperance is promoted, and character
generally reformed, by the agency of the bicycle—in fact, the guilty
class has taken to cycling.

That is so. Go into any police-court, and you will find culprits in the
dock who have not only taken to cycling but have also taken other
people's cycles.

Ask any burglar among your acquaintance, and he will tell you that the
term Safety Bicycle has a deeper and truer meaning for him, when, in
pursuit of his vocation, he is anxious not to come in collision with the
police.

Look, too, at the Scorcher on his Saturday afternoon exodus. Where could
you have a more salient and striking example of pushfulness and
determination to "get there" over all obstacles? He is, in fact, an
example of Nietzsche's "Ueber-mensch," the Over-man who rides over any
elderly pedestrian or negligible infant that may cross his path.

Then the Lady in Bloomers. She is a great reforming agent. She looks so
unsightly, that if all her sisters were dressed like her flirtation
would die out of the land and there would be no more cakes and ale.

Think also of all the virtues called into active exercise by one simple
puncture: Patience, while you spend an hour by the wayside five miles
from anywhere; Self-control, when "swears, idle swears, you know not
what they mean, swears from the depth of some divine despair rise in the
heart and gather to the lips," as Tennyson has so sympathetically put
it; Fortitude, when you have to shoulder or push the Moral Agent home;
and a lot of other copy-book qualities.

Lastly, the adventurer who proceeds without a light within curfew hours,
the sportsman who steals a march on the side-walk, and the novice who
tries a fall with the first omnibus encountered—are all bright
instances of British independence, and witnesses to Truth.

Truly, the bike is an excellent substitute for the treadmill and the
reformatory!

"As Others See Us."—

Obliging Motorist. "Shall I stop the engine?"

Groom. "Never mind that, sir. But if you gents wouldn't mind just
gettin' out and 'idin' behind the car for a minute,—the 'orses think
it's a menagery comin'."

THE MILTONIC CYCLIST

WAKE UP, ENGLAND!

["British lady motor-drivers," says Motoring Illustrated, "must look
to their laurels. Miss Rosamund Dixey, of Boston, U.S.A., invariably has
her sweet, pet, fat, white pig sitting up beside her in the front of her
motor car."]

"Did you get his number?"

"No; but I saw exactly what she was wearing and how much she paid for
the things!"

THE MOTORS' DEFENCE UNION

A Pedestrians' Protection League is being formed to uphold the rights of
foot-passengers on the highways. As no bane is without its antidote, an
opposition union is to be organised, having in view the adoption of the
following regulations:—

1. Every pedestrian must carry on his front and back a large and
conspicuous number as a means of easy and rapid identification.

2. No foot passenger shall quit the side-walk, except at certain
authorised crossings. In country lanes and places where there is no
side-walk the ditch shall be considered equivalent to the same.

3. Each foot-passenger about to make use of such authorised
crossings shall thrice sound a danger-signal on a hooter, fog-horn
or megaphone; and, after due warning has thus been given, shall
traverse the road at a speed of not less than twelve miles an hour.
The penalty for infringement to be forty shillings or one month.

4. Any pedestrian obstructing a motor by being run over, causing a
motor to slow down or stop, or[Pg 75]
otherwise deranging the traffic, shall be summarily dealt with: the
punishment for this offence to be five years' penal servitude,
dating from arrest or release from hospital, as the case may be.

5. Should the pedestrian thus trespassing on the highway lose his
life in an encounter with a motor-car, he shall not be liable to
penal servitude; compensation for shock and loss of time, however,
shall be paid from his estate to the driver of the car, such amount
being taxed by the coroner.

6. All cattle, sheep, pigs, swine, hares, rabbits, conies, and other
ground game, and every goose, duck, fowl, or any animal whatsoever
with which the motor shall collide shall, ipso facto, be
confiscated to the owner of the motor.

7. Any comment, remark, reflection, sneer or innuendo concerning the
shape, speed, appearance, noise, smell, or other attribute of a
motor-car, or of its occupants, shall be actionable; and every
foot-passenger thus offending shall be bound over in the sum of £500
to keep the peace.

The Scotchman who tumbled off a bicycle says that in future he intends
to "let wheel alone."

Mabel's three bosom Friends (all experts—who have run
round to see the Christmas gift). "Hullo, Mab!. Why, what on earth are
you doing?"

Mab (in gasps). "Oh—you see—it was awfully kind of the Pater to
give it to me—but I have to look after it myself—and I knew I should
never have breath enough to blow the tyres out!"

An Accommodating Party.—Lady Driver. "Can you show us
the way to Great Missenden, please?"

Weary Willie. "Cert'nly, miss, cert'nly. We're agoin' that way. 'Op
up, Joe. Anythink to oblige a lady!"

Among the correspondence in the Daily Mail on the subject of "The
Motor Problem," there is a letter from a physician, who exposes very
cynically a scheme for improving his practice.

"I am," he says, "a country doctor, and during the last five years have
had not a single case of accident to pedestrians caused by motor car....
As soon as I can afford it I intend to buy a motor."

HOW NOT

Bikist. "Now then, Ethel, see me make a spurt round this corner."

TO DO IT

First Villager. "What's up, Bill?"

Second Villager. "Oh, only a gent awashin' the dust off his bike."

It is a bad workman who complains of his tools, yet even the best of
them may be justly annoyed when his spanner goes completely off its nut.

"Motor cycle for sale, 2¾ h.-p., equal to 3¼ h.-p."

—Provincial Paper.

Discount of ½ h.-p. for cash?

SONG OF THE SCORCHER.

Owner (as the car insists upon backing into a dike).
"Don't be alarmed! Keep cool! Try and keep cool!"

[Friend thinks there is every probability of their keeping VERY cool,
whether they try to or not!]

Village Constable (to villager who has been knocked
down by passing motor cyclist). "You didn't see the number, but could
you swear to the man?"

Villager. "I did; but I don't think 'e 'eard me."

The Joys of Motoring.—No, this is not a dreadful
accident. He is simply tightening a nut or something, and she is hoping
he won't be much longer.

SUGGESTED ADDITIONAL TAXATION

The Original Classical Bicyclist.—"Ixion; or, the Man on the Wheel."

MY STEAM MOTOR-CAR.

(1) Monday.—I buy a beautiful steam motor-car. Am photographed. (2)
Tuesday.—I take it out. Pull the wrong lever, and back into a shop
window. A bad start. (3) Wednesday morning.—A few things I ran over.
(4) Wednesday afternoon.—Took too sharp a turn. Narrowly escaped
knocking down policeman at the corner. Ran over both his feet. (5)
Thursday morning.—Got stuck in a ditch four miles from home. (6)
Thursday evening.—Arrive home. Back the car into the shed. Miss the
door and knock the shed down. (7) Friday.—Ran over my neighbour's dog.
(8) Saturday.—Silly car breaks down three miles from home. Hire a horse
to tow it back. (9) Sunday.—Filling up. Petrol tank caught fire.
Wretched thing burnt. Thank goodness!

MY STEAM MOTOR-CAR.

MODERN ROMANCE OF THE ROAD

["It is said that the perpetrators of a recent burglary got clear
away with their booty by the help of an automobile. At this rate we
may expect to be attacked, ere long, by automobilist
highwaymen."—Paris Correspondent of Daily Paper.]

It was midnight. The wind howled drearily over the lonely heath; the
moon shone fitfully through the driving clouds. By its gleam an observer
might have noted a solitary automobile painfully jolting along the rough
road that lay across the common. Its speed, as carefully noted by an
intelligent constable half-an-hour earlier, was 41.275 miles an hour. To
the ordinary observer it would appear somewhat less. Two figures might
have been descried on the machine; the one the gallant Hubert de
Fitztompkyns, the other Lady Clarabella, his young and lovely bride.
Clarabella shivered, and drew her sables more closely around her.

"I am frightened," she murmured. "It is so dark and cold, Hubert, and
this is a well-known place for highwaymen! Suppose we should be
attacked?"

"Pooh!" replied her husband, deftly manipulating the oil-can. "Who
should attack us when 'tis common talk that you pawned your diamonds a
month ago? Besides, we have a swivel-mounted Maxim on our machine. Ill
would it fare with the rogue who—Heavens! what was that?"

From the far distance sounded a weird, unearthly noise, growing clearer
and louder even as Hubert and his wife listened. It was the whistle of
another automobile!

In a moment Hubert had turned on the acetylene search-light, and gazed
with straining eyes down the road behind him. Then he turned to his
wife. "'Tis Cutthroat giving us chase," he said simply. "Pass the
cordite cartridges, please."

Lady Clarabella grew deathly pale. "I don't know where they are!" she
gasped. "I think—I think I must have left them on my dressing-table."

"Then we are lost. Cutthroat is mounted on his bony Black Jet, which
covers a mile a minute—and he is the most blood-thirsty ruffian on the
road. Shut off steam, Clarabella! We can but yield."

"Never!" cried his wife. "Here, give me the[Pg 90]
lever; we are nearly at the top of this tremendously steep hill—we will
foil him yet!"

Hubert was too much astonished to speak. By terrific efforts the gallant
automobile arrived at the summit, when Clarabella applied the brake.
Then she gazed down the narrow road behind her. "Take the
starting-lever, Hubert," she said, "and do as I tell you."

Ever louder sounded the clatter of their pursuer's machine; at last its
head-light showed in the distance, as with greatly diminished speed it
began to climb the hill.

"Now!" shrieked Clarabella. "Full speed astern, Hubert! Let her go!"

The automobile went backwards down the hill like a flash of lightning.
Cutthroat had barely time to realise what was happening before it was
upon him. Too late he tried to steer Black Jet out of the way. There was
a yell, a sound of crashing steel, a cloud of steam. When it cleared
away, it revealed Hubert and Clarabella still seated on their machine,
which was only slightly damaged, while Cutthroat and Black Jet were
knocked into countless atoms!

Great Self-restraint.—Lady in pony-cart (who has
made several unsuccessful attempts to pass persevering beginner
occupying the whole road). "Unless you soon fall off, I'm afraid I
shall miss my train!"

"These trailers are splendid things! You must really get
one and take me out, Percy!"

The Rival Forces.

(Scene—Lonely Yorkshire moor. Miles from anywhere.)

Passing Horse-dealer (who has been asked for a tow by owners of
broken-down motor-car). "Is it easy to pull?"

Motorist. "Oh yes. Very light indeed!"

Horse-dealer. "Then supposin' you pull it yourselves!"

[Drives off.

The Owner (after five breakdowns and a spill). "Are y-you k-keen on
r-riding home?"

His Friend. "N-not very."

The Owner. "L-let's l-leave it a-and walk, s-shall we?"

Sunday Morning.—

Cyclist (to rural policeman). "Nice crowd out this morning!"

Rural Policeman (who has received a tip). "Yes, an' yer can't do
with 'em! If yer 'ollers at 'em, they honly turns round and says, 'Pip,
pip'!"

Rustic (to beginner, who has charged the hedge).
"It's no good, sir. They things won't jump!"

The Universal Juggernaut.—"Anyone," says the Daily Telegraph, "who
has driven an automobile will know that it is quite impossible to run
over a child and remain unconscious of the fact." Any one who has
driven an automobile! Heavens! what a sweeping charge! Is there none
innocent?

"'Tain't no use tellin' me you've broke down! Stands to
reason a motor-caw goin' down 'ill's bound to be goin' too fast. So
we'll put it down at about thirty mile an hour! Your name and address,
sir, hif you please."

URBS IN RURE

["When every one has a bicycle and flies to the suburban roads, the
suburban dwellers will desert their houses and come back to crowded
London to find quiet and freedom from dust."—Daily Paper.]

Vehicular Progression.—Mr. Ikey Motor (to customer). Want a
machine, sir? Certainly, we've all sorts to suit your build.

Customer. It isn't for me, but for my mother-in-law.

Mr. Ikey Motor. For your mother-in-law! How would a steam roller suit
her?

[Mr. I. M. is immediately made aware that the lady in question has
overheard his ill-timed jest, while the customer vanishes in blue fire.

Experto Crede.—What is worse than raining cats and dogs?—Hailing motor
omnibuses.

Comprehensive.—Owner (as the car starts backing down
the hill). "Pull everything you can see, and put your foot on
everything else!"

Farmer (in cart). "Hi, stop! Stop, you fool! Don't
you see my horse is running away?"

Driver of Motor-car (hired by the hour). "Yes, it's all very well
for you to say 'stop,' but I've forgotten how the blooming thing
works!"

SIMPLE ENOUGH

Yokel (in pursuit of escaped bull, to Timmins, who is "teaching
himself"). "Hi, Mister! If yer catch hold of his leading-stick, he
can't hurt yer!"

Motto for those who "Bike."—"And wheels rush in where horses fear to
tread."

A Case of Mistaken Identity.—

Major Mustard (who has been changing several of his servants). "How
dare you call yourself a chauffeur?"

Alfonsoe. "Mais non! Non, monsieur! Je ne suis pas 'chauffeur.' J'ai
dit que je suis le chef. Mais monsieur comprehend not!"

CYCLES! CYCLES!! CYCLES!!!

SOMETHING ABSOLUTELY NEW

All our bicycles are fitted with the Little Handle-Bar Spring, which,
when pressed, causes the machine to fall into 114 pieces.

Anyone can press the spring, but it takes an expert three months to
rebuild it, thus trebling the life of a bicycle.

We are offering this marvellous invention at the absurd price of

or 98 weekly instalments of 1 guinea. [Special reductions to company
promoters and men with large families.]

We can't afford to do it for less, because when once you have bought one
you will never want another.

Don't lose your head when the machine runs away with you down the hill;
simply press the spring.

Don't wait for your rich uncle to die; just send him one of our cycles.

Don't lock your cycle up at night; merely press the spring.

Don't be misled by other firms who say that their machines will also
fall to pieces; they are only trying to sell their cycles; we want to
sell YOU.

Note.—We can also fit this marvellous Little Spring to perambulators,
bath-chairs, and bathing machines.

We append below some two out of our million testimonials. The other
999,998 are expected every post.

July, 1906.

Dear Sirs,—I bought one of your cycles in May, 1895, and it is still as
good as when I received it. I attribute this solely to the Little
Handle-Bar Spring, which I pressed as soon as I received the machine.

P.S.—What do you charge for rebuilding a cycle?

August, 1906.

Gentlemen,—Last month I started to ride to Barnet on one of your
cycles. When ascending Muswell Hill, I lost control of the machine, but I simply pressed the
spring, and now I feel that I cannot say enough about your bike. I shall
never ride any other again.

P.S.—I should very much like to meet the inventor of the "Little
Handle-Bar Spring."

Friend. "Going about thirty, are we? But don't you run
some risk of being pulled up for exceeding the legal pace?"

Owner. "Not in a sober, respectable-looking car like this. Of course,
if you go about in a blatant, brass-bound, scarlet-padded, snorting
foreign affair, like that, you are bound to be dropped on, no matter
how slow you go!"

AN AMBUSCADE.--Captain de Smythe insidiously beguiles the
fair Laura and her sister to a certain secluded spot where, as he
happens to know, his hated rival, Mr. Tomkyns, is in the habit of
secretly practising on the bicycle. He (Captain de S.) calculates that a
mere glimpse of Mr. T., as he wobbles wildly by on that instrument, will
be sufficient to dispel any illusions that the fair Laura may cherish in
her bosom respecting that worthy man.

Our own Undergraduate (fresh from his Euclid). "Ha!
Two riders to one prop."

Insult Added to Injury.—Wretched Boy. "Hi, guv'nor!
D'yer want any help?"

THE PERFECT AUTOMOBILIST

The Perfect Automobilist thinks only of others. He is an Auto-altruist.

He never wantonly kills anybody.

If he injures a fellow-creature (and this will always be the
fellow-creature's fault) he voluntarily buys him a princely annuity. In
the case of a woman, if she is irreparably disfigured by the accident,
he will, supposing he has no other wife at the time, offer her the
consolation of marriage with himself.

He regards the life of bird and beast as no less sacred than that of
human beings. Should he inadvertently break a fowl or pig he will convey
it to the nearest veterinary surgeon and have the broken limb set or
amputated as the injury may require. In the event of death or permanent
damage, he will seek out the owner of the dumb animal, and refund him
fourfold.

To be on the safe side with respect to the legal limit, the Perfect
Automobilist confines himself to[Pg 110]
a speed of ten miles per hour. He will even dismount at the top of a
steep descent, so as to lessen the impetus due to the force of gravity.

If he is compelled by the nature of his mission to exceed the legal
limit (as when hurrying, for instance, to fetch a doctor in a matter of
life or death, or to inform the Government of the landing of a hostile
force) he is anxious not to shirk the penalty. He will, therefore, send
on a swift messenger to warn the police to be on the lookout for him;
and if he fails to run into any trap he will, on returning, report
himself at all the police-stations on his route, or communicate by post
with the constabularies of the various counties through which he may
have passed.

At the back of his motor he carries a watering-cart attachment for the
laying of dust before it has time to be raised.

Lest the noise of his motor should be a cause of distraction he slows
down when passing military bands, barrel organs, churches (during the
hours of worship), the Houses of Parliament (while sitting),
motor-buses, the Stock Exchange, and open-air meetings of the
unemployed.

If he meets a restive horse he will turn back and go down a side road
and wait till it has passed. If all the side roads are occupied by
restive horses he will go back home; and if the way home is similarly
barred he will turn into a field.

He encourages his motor to break down frequently; because this spectacle
affords an innocent diversion to many whose existence would otherwise be
colourless.

It is his greatest joy to give a timely lift to weary pedestrians, such
as tramps, postmen, sweeps, and police-trap detectives; even though, the
car being already full, he is himself compelled to get out and do the
last fifty or sixty miles on foot.

He declines to wear goggles because they conceal the natural benevolence
of the human eye divine, which he regards as the window of the soul;
also (and for the same reason he never wears a fur overcoat) because
they accentuate class distinctions.

Finally—on this very ground—the Perfect Automobilist will sell all his
motor-stud and give the proceeds to found an almshouse for retired
socialists.

Obliging Horseman (of riverside breeding). "Ave a tow
up, miss?"

Cyclist. "Why can't you look where you're going?"

Motorist. "How the dickens could I when I didn't know!"

Middle-aged Novice. "I'm just off for a tour in the
country—'biking' all the way. It'll be four weeks before I'm back in my
flat again."

Candid Friend. "Ah! Bet it won't be four hours before you're flat on
your back again!"

THE LAST RECORD

THE MOTOR-BATH

Nurse. "Oh, baby, look at the diver!"

A SONG OF THE ROAD

"Motor Body."—"One man can change from a tonneau to a landaulette,
shooting brake, or racing car in two minutes, and, when fixed, cannot be
told from ANY fixed body."—Advt. in the "Autocar."

The disguise would certainly deceive one's nearest relations, but as
likely as not one's dog would come up and give the whole show away by
licking the sparking plug.

Chauffeur. "Pardon, monsieur. This way, conducts she
straight to Hele?"

Major Chili Pepper (a rabid anti-motorist and slightly deaf).
"Certainly it will, sir if you continue to drive on the wrong side of
the road!"

"FACILIS

Bikist (gaily). "Here we go down! down! down! down!"

DESCENSUS!"

The same (very much down). "Never again with you, my bikey!"

Should Motors carry Maxims?—Under the title "Murderous Magistrate," the
Daily Mail printed some observations made by a barrister who reproves
Canon Greenwell for remarking from the Durham County Bench that if a few
motorists were shot no great harm would be done. The same paper
subsequently published an article headed, "Maxims for Motorists."
Retaliation in kind is natural, and a maxim is an excellent retort to a
canon. But why abuse the canon first?

So many accidents have occurred lately through the ignition of petrol
that a wealthy motorist, we hear, is making arrangements for his car to
be followed, wherever it may go, by a fully-equipped fire-engine, and,
if this example be followed widely, our roads will become more
interesting than ever.

Are there motor-cars in the celestial regions? Professor Schaer, of
Geneva, has discovered what he describes as a new comet plunging due
south at a rate of almost 8 degrees a day, and careering across the
Milky Way regardless of all other traffic.

OUR ELECTION—POLLING DAY

Energetic Committeeman. "It's all right. Drive on! He's voted!"

THE MOTOCRAT

I am he: goggled and unashamed. Furred also am I, stop-watched and
horse-powerful. Millions admit my sway—on both sides of the road. The
Plutocrat has money: I have motors. The Democrat has the rates; so have
I—two—one for use and one for County Courts. The Autocrat is dead, but
I—I increase and multiply. I have taken his place.

I blow my horn and the people scatter. I stand still and everything
trembles. I move and kill dogs. I skid and chickens die. I pass swiftly
from place to place, and horses bolt in dust storms which cover the
land. I make the dust storms. For I am Omnipotent; I make everything. I
make dust, I make smell, I make noise. And I go forward, ever forward,
and pass through or over almost everything. "Over or Through" is my
motto.

The roads were made for me; years ago they were made. Wise rulers saw me
coming and made roads. Now that I am come, they go on[Pg 124]
making roads—making them up. For I break things. Roads I break and
Rules of the Road. Statutory limits were made for me. I break them. I
break the dull silence of the country. Sometimes I break down, and
thousands flock round me, so that I dislocate the traffic. But I am
the Traffic.

I am I and She is She—the rest get out of the way. Truly, the hand
which rules the motor rocks the world.

MOTOR CAR-ACTERISTICS

ADDING INSULT TO INJURY

Cyclist (to Foxhunter, thrown out), "Oi say, Squoire, 'ave you seen
the 'ounds?"

True Philosophy.—Ploughman. "Ah, things be different
like wi' them an' us. They've got a trap wi' no 'osses, an' we 'm got
'osses wi' no trap."

THE RECKLESS ONE

Wife of Injured Cyclist (who, having found considerable difficulty in
getting on his bicycle, and none whatever in coming off, has never
ventured to attempt more than three miles in the hour). "Well, I do
believe he's had a lesson at last! I warned him about 'scorching.' I
said to him, what have you got to do with the 'record'?"

AN INOPPORTUNE TIME

Jones, while motoring to town to fulfil an important engagement, has the
misfortune to get stuck up on the road, and has sent his chauffeur to
the village for assistance. In the meantime several village children
gather around and sing, "God rest you, merry gentleman, let nothing you
dismay," etc.

The Great Motor Mystery.—At Lancaster two motorists were fined,
according to the Manchester Evening News, "for driving a motor-car
over a trap near Carnforth, at twenty-nine and thirty-four miles per
hour respectively." We are of the opinion that the action of the second
gentleman in driving at so high a speed over the poor trap when it was
already down was not quite in accordance with the best traditions of
English sport.

Breaking it Gently.—

Passer-by. "Is that your pork down there on the road, guv'nor?"

Farmer. "Pork! What d'ye mean? There's a pig o' mine out there."

Passer-by. "Ah, but there's a motor-car just been by."

Exclusive.—

Fair Driver. "Will you stand by the pony for a few minutes, my good
man?"

The Good Man. "Pony, mum? No, I'm a motor-minder, I am. 'Ere, Bill!
'Orse."

CRAZY TALES

The Duchess of Pomposet was writhing, poor thing, on the horns of a
dilemma. Painful position, very. She was the greatest of great ladies,
full of fire and fashion, and with a purple blush (she was born that
colour) flung bangly arms round the neck of her lord and master. The
unfortunate man was a shocking sufferer, having a bad unearned
increment, and enduring constant pain on account of his back being
broader than his views.

"Pomposet," she cried, resolutely. "Duky darling!"

(When first married she had ventured to apostrophise him as "ducky," but
His Grace thought it infra dig., and they compromised by omitting the
vulgar "c.")

"Duky," she said, raising pale distinguished eyes to a Chippendale
mirror, "I have made up my mind."

"Don't," expostulated the trembling peer. "You are so rash!"

"What is more, I have made up yours."

"To make up the mind of an English Duke,"
[Pg 132]
he remarked, with dignity, "requires no ordinary intellect; yet I
believe with your feminine hydraulics you are capable of anything,
Jane."

(That this aristocratic rib of his rib should have been named plain Jane
was a chronic sorrow.)

"Don't keep me in suspense," he continued; "in fact, to descend to a
colloquialism, I insist on Your Grace letting the cat out of the bag
with the least possible delay."

"As you will," she replied. "Your blood be on your own coronet. Prepare
for a shock—a revelation. I have fallen! Not once—but many times."

"Wretched woman!—I beg pardon!—wretched Grande Dame! call upon Debrett
to cover you!"

"I am madly in love with——"

"By my taffeta and ermine, I swear——"

"Peace, peace!" said Jane. "Compose yourself, ducky—that is
Plantagenet. Forgive the slip. I am agitated. My mind runs on slips."

The Duke groaned.

"Horrid, awful slips!"

With a countenance of alabaster he tore at his sandy top-knot.

"I have deceived you. I admit it. Stooped to folly."

A supercilious cry rent the air as the Duke staggered on his patrician
limbs.

With womanly impulse—flinging caste to the winds—Jane caught the
majestic form to her palpitating alpaca, and, watering his beloved
features with Duchessy drops, cried in passionate accents, "My King! My
Sensitive Plant! Heavens! It's his unlucky back! Be calm, Plantagenet. I
have—been—learning—to—bike! There! On the sly!"

The Duke flapped a reviving toe, and squeezed the august fingers.

"I am madly enamoured of—my machine."

The peer smoothed a ruffled top-knot with ineffable grace.

"Likewise am determined you shall take lessons. Now it is no use,
duky. I mean to be tender but firm with you."

The Potentate gave a stertorous chortle, and, stretching out his arms,
fell in a strawberry-leaf swoon on the parquet floor, his ducal head on
the lap of his adored Jane.

The Freemasonry of the Wheel.—"Rippin' wevver fer hus
ciciklin' chaps, ain't it?"

BROTHERS IN ADVERSITY

Farmer. "Pull up, you fool! The mare's bolting!"

Motorist. "So's the car!"

QUITE RESPECTFUL

Fair Cyclist. "Is that the incumbent of this parish?"

Parishioner. "Well, 'e's the Vicar. But, wotever some of us thinks,
we never calls 'im a hencumbrance!"

Gipsy Fortune-teller (seriously). "Let me warn you. Somebody's going
to cross your path."

Motorist. "Don't you think you'd better warn the other chap?"

THE SCORCHER

A motorist wishes to point out the very grave danger this
balloon-scorching may become, and suggests a speed limit be made before
things go too far.

THE MUGGLETON MOTOR-CAR;

OR, THE WELLERS ON WHEELS

As light as fairies, if not altogether as brisk as bees, did the four
Pickwickian shades assemble on a winter morning in the year of grace,
1896. Christmas was nigh at hand, in all its fin-de-siècle inwardness;
it was the season of pictorial too-previousness and artistic
anticipation, of plethoric periodicals, all shocker-sensationalism
sandwiched with startling advertisements; of cynical new-humour and
flamboyantly sentimental chromo-lithography.

But we are so taken up by the genial delights of the New Christmas that
we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his phantom friends waiting in the cold
on the chilly outside of the Muggleton Motor-car, which they had just
mounted, well wrapped up in antiquated great coats, shawls, and
comforters.

Mr. Weller, Senior, had, all unconsciously, brought his well-loved whip
with him, and was greatly embarrassed thereby.

"Votever shall I do vith it, Sammy?" he whispered, hoarsely.

"Purtend it's a new, patent, jointless fishing-rod, guv'nor," rejoined
Sam, in a Stygian aside. "Nobody 'ere'll 'ave the slightest notion vot
it really is."

"When are they—eh—going to—ahem—put the horses to?" murmured Mr.
Pickwick, emerging from his coat collar, and looking about him with
great perplexity.

"'Osses?" cried the coachman, turning round upon Mr. Pickwick, with
sharp suspicion in his eye. "'Osses? d'ye say. Oh, who are you
a-gettin' at?"

Mr. Pickwick withdrew promptly into his coat-collar.

The irrepressible Sam came immediately to the aid of his beloved master,
whom he would never see snubbed if he knew it.

"There's vheels vithin vheels, as the bicyclist said vhen he vos pitched
head foremost into the vatchmaker's vinder," remarked Mr. Weller,
Junior, with the air of a Solomon in smalls. "But vot sort of a vheel do
you call that thing in front[Pg 142]
of you, and vot's its pertikler objeck? a top of a coach instead o'
under it?"

"This yer wheel means Revolution," said the driver.

"It do, Samivel, it do," interjected his father dolorously. "And in my
opinion it's a worse Revolution than that there French one itself. A
coach vithout 'osses, vheels instead of vheelers, and a driver vithout a
vhip! Oh Sammy, Sammy, to think it should come to this!!!"

The driver—if it be not desecration to a noble old name so to designate
him—gave a turn to his wheel and the autocar started. Mr. Winkle, who
sat at the extreme edge, waggled his shadowy legs forlornly in the air;
Mr. Snodgrass, who sat next to him, snorted lugubriously; Mr. Tupman
turned paler than even a Stygian shade has a right to do. Mr. Pickwick
took off his glasses and wiped them furtively.

"Sam," he whispered hysterically in the ear of his faithful servitor,
"Sam, this is dreadful! A—ahem!—vehicle with no visible means of
propulsion pounding along like—eh—Saint Denis without his head, is
more uncanny than Charon's boat."

"Let's get down, Sammy, let's get down at once," groaned Mr. Weller the
elder. "I can't stand it, Samivel, I really can't. Think o' the poor
'osses, Sammy, think o' the poor 'osses as ain't there, and vot they
must feel to find theirselves sooperseeded by a hugly vheel and a
pennorth o' peteroleum, &c.!"

"Hold on, old Nobs!" cried the son, with frank filial sympathy. "Think
of the guv'nor, father, and vait for the first stoppage. Never again
vith the Muggleton Motor! Vhy, it vorse than a hortomatic vheelbarrow,
ain't it, Mr. Pickwick?"

"Ah, Sammy," assented Mr. Weller, Senior, hugging his whip,
affectionately. "Vorse even than vidders, Sammy, the red-nosed shepherd,
or the Mulberry One hisself!"

A bear in a motor-car attracted much attention in the City last week. It
had four legs this time.

The Motor Car declares, on high medical authority, that motoring is a
cure for insanity. We would therefore recommend several motorists we
know to persevere.

Gentle Satire—"I say, Bill, look 'ere! 'Ere's a old cove
out record-breaking!"

Motor Mania.—

The Poet (deprecatingly). "They say she gives more attention to her
motor-cars than to her children."

The Butterfly. "Of course. How absurd you are! Motor-cars require more
attention than children."

SOUR GRAPES

First Scorcher. "Call that exercise?"

Second Scorcher. "No. I call it sitting in a draught!"

Not to be Caught.—

Motorist (whose motor has thrown elderly villager into horse-pond).
"Come along, my man, I'll take you home to get dry."

Elderly Villager. "No, yer don't. I've got yer number, and 'ere I
stays till a hindependent witness comes along!"

Pedestrian. "I hear Brown has taken to cycling, and is
very enthusiastic about it!"

Cyclist. "Enthusiastic! Not a bit of it. Why, he never rides before
breakfast!"

GROTESQUERIES

Words wanted to express feelings

When your motor refuses to move, twenty miles from the nearest town.

SO INCONSIDERATE

"Jove! Might have killed us! I must have a wire screen fixed up."

BROWNING ON THE ROAD.

"IF DOUGHTY DEEDS MY LADY PLEASE"

"Mamma! Mr. White says he is longing to give you your first bicycle
lesson!"

A WISH

THE BIKER BIKED

"WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS," &c.

He (alarmed by the erratic steering). "Er—and have you driven
much?"

She (quite pleased with herself). "Oh, no—this is only my second
attempt. But then, you see, I have been used to a bicycle for years!"

MISUNDERSTOOD

Donald (who has picked up fair cyclist's handkerchief). "Hi! Woman!
Woman!"

Fair Cyclist (indignantly). "'Woman'! How dare you——"

Donald (out of breath). "I beg your pardon, sir! I thought you was a
woman. I didna see your trews."

Automobile dust-carts, says the Matin, are to be used in Paris
henceforth. We had thought every motor-car was this.

English Dictionary Illustrated.—"Coincidence." The
falling or meeting of two or more lines or bodies at the same point.

REFLECTIONS OF A MOTOR-RACER

Two A.M.! Time to get up, if I'm to be ready for the great Paris-Berlin
race at 3.30. Feel very cold and sleepy. Pitch dark morning, of course.
Moon been down hours. Must get into clothes, I suppose. Oilskins feel
very clammy and heavy at this hour in the morning. Button up tunic and
tuck trousers into top boots. Put on peaked cap and fasten veil tightly
over face, after covering eyes with iron goggles and protecting mouth
with respirator. Wind woollen muffler round neck and case hands in thick
dogskin gloves with gauntlets. Look like Nansen going to discover North
Pole. Or Tweedledum about to join battle with Tweedledee. Effect on the
whole unpleasing.

Great crowds to see us off. Nearly ran over several in effort to reach
starting post. Very careless. People ought not to get in the way on
these occasions. Noise appalling. Cheers, snatches of Marseillaise,
snorts of motors, curses of competitors, cries of bystanders knocked
down by[Pg 156]
enthusiastic chauffeurs, shouts of gendarmes clearing the course.
Spectators seem to find glare of acetylene lamps very confusing. Several
more or less injured through not getting out of the way sufficiently
quickly. At last the flag drops. We are off.

Pull lever, and car leaps forward. Wonder if wiser to start full speed
or begin gently? Decide on latter. Result, nearly blinded by dust of
competitors in front, and suffocated by stench of petroleum. Fellow just
ahead particularly objectionable in both respects. Decide to quicken up
and pass him. Can't see a foot before me on account of his dust.
Suddenly run into the stern of his car. Apologise. Can't I look where
I'm going? Of course I can. Not my fault at all. Surly fellow! Proceed
to go slower. Fellow behind runs into me. Confound him, can't he be
more careful? Says he couldn't see me. Idiot!

Put on speed again. Car in front just visible through haze of dust. Hear
distant crash. Confound the man, he's run into a dray! Just time to
swerve to the right, and miss wreck of his car by an inch. Clumsy
fellow, blocking my road in that way. At last clear space before me. Go
up with[Pg 158]
a rush. Wind whistles past my ears. Glorious! What's that? Run over an
old woman? Very annoying. Almost upset my car. Awkward for next chap.
Body right across the road. Spill him to a certainty.

Morning growing light, but dust thicker than ever. Scarcely see a yard
in front of me. Must trust to luck. Fortunately road pretty straight
here. Just missed big tree. Collided with small one. Knocked it over
like a ninepin. Lucky I was going so fast. Car uninjured, but tree done
for. Man in car just ahead very much in my way. Shout to him to get out
of the light. Turns round and grins malevolently. Movement fatal. He
forgets to steer and goes crash into ditch. What's that he says? Help?
Silly fellow, does he think I can stop at this pace? Curious how
ignorant people seem to be of simplest mechanical laws.

Magnificent piece of road here. Nothing in sight but a dog. Run over it.
Put on full speed. Seventy miles an hour at least. Can no longer see or
hear anything. Trees, villages, fields rush by in lightning succession.
Fancy a child is knocked down. Am vaguely conscious of upsetting old
[Pg 160]
gentleman in gig. Seem to notice a bump on part of car, indicating that
it has passed over prostrate fellow citizen, but not sure. Sensation
most exhilarating. Immolate another child. Really most careless of
parents leaving children loose like this in the country. Some day there
will be an accident. Might have punctured my tyre.

Chap in front of me comes in sight. Catching him up fast. He puts on
full speed. Still gaining on him. Pace terrific. Sudden flash just
ahead, followed by loud explosion. Fellow's benzine reservoir blown up
apparently. Pass over smoking ruins of car. Driver nowhere to be seen.
Probably lying in neighbouring field. That puts him out of the race.

Eh? What's that? Aix in sight? Gallop, says Browning. Better not,
perhaps. Road ahead crowded with spectators. Great temptation to charge
through them in style. Mightn't be popular, though. Slow down to fifteen
miles an hour, and enter town amid frantic cheering. Most interesting.
Wonderfully few casualties. Dismount at door of hotel dusty but
triumphant.

First Cyclist (cross-eyed). "Why the dickens don't
you look where you're going?"

Second Cyclist (cross-eyed). "Why don't you go where you're
looking?"

Quite Impossible.—Motorist. "What! Exceeding the legal
limit? Do we look as if we would do such a thing?"

THE INTERPRETATION OF SIGNS

Custodian. "This 'ere's a private road, miss! Didn't yer see the
notice-board at the gate, sayin' 'No thoroughfare'?"

Placida. "Oh yes, of course. Why, that's how I knew there was a way
through!"

AFTER THE ACCIDENT

"Toujours la politesse."

QUITE A LITTLE HOLIDAY

Cottager. "What's wrong, Biker? Have you had a spill?"

Biker. "Oh, no. I'm having a rest!"

WHATS IN A NAME?

Old Gent (lately bitten with the craze). "And that confounded man
sold me the thing for a safety!"

Motoring Illustrated suggests the institution of a Motor Museum. If we
were sure that most of the motor omnibuses at present in our streets
would find their way there, we would gladly subscribe.

PROTECTION AGAINST MOTOR-CARS

Sir,—I recently read with interest a letter in the Times from "A
Cyclist since 1868." In it he announced his intention of carrying a
tail-light in order to avoid being run into from behind. The idea is
admirable, and my wife and I, as Pedestrians since 1826 and 1823
respectively, propose to wear two lamps each in future, a white and a
red.

We are, however, a little exercised to know whether we should carry the
white in front and the red behind, or vice versâ. For in walking along
the right side of a road we shall appear on the wrong side to an
approaching motor-car. Would it not therefore be better for us to have
the tail-light in front. Your most humble and obedient servant,

Lux Præpostera.

P.S.—Would such an arrangement make us "carriages" in the eye of the
law? At present we appear to be merely a sub-division of the class
"unlighted objects."

Cure for Motor-Scorchers (suggested as being even more humane than the
proposal of Sir R. Payne-Gallwey).—Give them Automobile Beans!

SLOW AND SURE

John. "I've noticed, miss, as when you 'as a motor, you catches a
train, not the train!"

HOW THE MATCH CAME OFF

Motor Fiend. "Why don't you get out of the way?"

Victim. "What! Are you coming back?"

MOTOROBESITY

In the spring of 1913 St. John Skinner came back from Africa, after
spending nine or ten years somewhere near the Zambesi. He travelled up
to Waterloo by the electric train, and the three very stout men who were
in the same first-class compartment seemed to look at him with surprise.
On arriving at his hotel he pushed his way through a crowd of fat
persons in the hall. Then he changed his clothes, and went round to his
Club to dine.

The dining-room was filled with members of extraordinary obesity, all
eating heartily. In the fat features of one of them he thought he
recognised a once familiar face. "Round," said he, "how are you?"

The stout man stopped eating, and gazed at him anxiously. "Why," he
murmured, after a while, in the soft voice that comes from folds of fat,
"it must be Skinner. My dear fellow, what is the matter with you? Have
you had a fever?"

"I'm all right," answered the other; "what makes you think I've been
ill?"

"Ill, man!" said Round, "why you've wasted away to nothing. You're a
perfect skeleton."

"If it's a question of bulk," remarked Skinner, "I'm much more
surprised. You've grown so stout, every fellow in the Club seems so
stout, everyone I've seen is as fat as—as—as you are."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Round, "you don't mean to say I've been putting on
more flesh? I'm the light weight of the Club. I only weigh sixteen
stone. No, no, you're chaffing, or you judge by your own figure."

"Not a bit," said the other; "you and I used to weigh about the same.
What on earth has happened to you all?"

"Well," said Round, "perhaps you're right. It's very much what the
doctors say. It's the fashionable complaint, motorobesity. Sit down, and
dine with me, and I'll tell you what the idea is. You see, it's like
this. For ten years or so everybody who could afford a motor of some
sort has had one. We've all had one. Not to have a motor has been simply
ridiculous, if not disreputable. So[Pg 172]
everybody has ridden about all day in the fresh air, never had any
exercise, and got an enormous appetite. Besides, in the summer we've
always been drinking beer to wash down the dust, and in the winter soup,
or spirits, or something to warm us. My dear fellow, you can't think
what an appetite motoring gives you. I had an enormous steak for my
lunch at Winchester to-day, and a great lump of plum cake with my tea at
Aldershot, and my aunt, the General's wife, made me bring a bag of
biscuits to eat on the way up, and yet I'm so hungry now that I should
feel quite uncomfortable if the thirst those biscuits, and the dust,
gave me didn't make me almost forget it. I suppose everyone is really
getting fat. One notices it when one does happen to see a thin fellow
like you. Why, in all the Clubs they've had to have new arm-chairs,
because the old ones were too narrow. However, I've talked enough about
motoring. So glad to see you again, old chap. Of course you'll get a
motor as soon as possible."

"Well," said Skinner, "I rather think I shall buy a horse."

"My dear fellow," cried Round, "what an idea!
[Pg 174]
Horse-riding is such awfully bad form. Besides, you can't go any pace.
Look at me. I wouldn't get on a horse, and be shaken to pieces."

"I should think not," said Skinner, "but I think I should prefer that to
motorobesity."

An advertisement in The Motor quotes the testimony of a gentleman from
Moreton-in-the-Marsh, who states that he has run a certain car "nearly
412,500 miles in four months, and is more than pleased with it." As this
works out (on a basis of twenty-four hours' running per diem) at about
143 miles per hour, we have pleasure in asking what the police are doing
in Moreton-in-the-Marsh and its vicinity.

Noticing an advertisement of a book entitled "The Complete Motorist," an
angry opponent of the new method of locomotion writes to suggest that
the companion volume, "The Complete Pedestrian," had better be written
at once before it becomes impossible to find an entire specimen.

Maxim for Cyclists.—"Try-cycle before you Buy-cycle."

Motorist (a novice) has been giving chairman of local
urban council a practical demonstration of the ease with which a
motor-car can be controlled when travelling at a high speed.

LOVE'S ENDURANCE

Miss Dolly (to her fiancé). "Oh, Jack, this is delightful! If you'll
only keep up the pace, I'm sure I shall soon gain confidence!"

[Poor Jack has already run a mile or more, and is very short of
condition.]

Tu Quoque.—Cyclist (a beginner who has just collided
with freshly-painted fence). "Confound your filthy paint! Now, just
look at my coat!" Painter. "'Ang yer bloomin' coat! 'Ow about my
paint?"

NOTE TO THE SUPERSTITIOUS

It is considered lucky for a black cat to cross your path.

WAITING FOR

"W'y, I remembers the time w'en I'd 'ave stopped that
for furious drivin', an' I reckon it's only goin' about a paltry fifteen
mile an hour!"

BIGGER GAME

"Ar! Now them cyclists is puttin' on a fairish pace!
Summat about twenty mile an hour, I s'pose. But 'tain't no business o'
mine. I'm 'ere to stop motor-caws. Wot ho!"

LOVE IN A CAR

["I have personal knowledge of marriages resulting from motor-car
courtships."—The Hon. C. S. Rolls.—Daily Express.]

Miller (looking after cyclist, who has a slight touch
of motor mania). "Well, to be sure! There do be some main ignorant
chaps out o' London. 'E comes 'ere askin' me 'ow many 'orse power the
old mill ad got."

Cyclist (whose tyre has become deflated). "Have you such a thing as
a pump?"

Yokel. "'Ees, miss, there's one i' the yard."

Cyclist. "I should be much obliged if you would let me use it."

Yokel. "That depends 'ow much you want. Watter be main scarce wi' us
this year! Oi'll ask feyther."

Smart Girl (to keen motorist). "My sister has bought
a beautiful motor-car." Keen Motorist. "Really! What kind?" Smart
Girl. "Oh, a lovely sage green, to go with her frocks."

Mrs. Binks (who has lost control of her machine).
"Oh, oh, Harry! Please get into a bank soon. I must have something soft
to fall on!"

Miss Heavytopp. "I'm afraid I'm giving you a lot of bother, but then,
it's only my first lesson!"

Exhausted Instructor (sotto voce). "I only hope it won't be my
last!"

SORROWS OF A "CHAUFFEUR"

Ancient Dame. "What d'ye say? They call he a 'shuvver,' do they? I
see. They put he to walk behind and shove 'em up the hills, I reckon."

A Cycle of Cathay.—The Yorkshire Evening Post, in reporting the case
of a motor-cyclist charged with travelling at excessive speed on the
highway at Selby, represents a police-sergeant as stating that "he timed
defendant over a distance of 633 years, which was covered in 64 secs.
The contention of the defendant that he had been "very imperfectly
timed" has an air of captiousness.

"Many roads in the district are unfit for motorists," is the report of
the Tadcaster surveyor to his council. We understand the inhabitants
have resolved to leave well alone.

At a meeting of the Four Wheeler's Association, a speaker boasted, with
some justification, that a charge which is brought every day against
drivers of motor-cars has never been brought against members of their
Association, namely, that of driving at an excessive speed.

Rumour is again busy with the promised appearance of a motor-bus which
is to be so quiet that you will not know that there is one on the road
until you have been run over.

An Unpardonable Mistake.—Short-sighted Old Lady.
"Porter!"

Nosce Teipsum.—Lady Cyclist (touring in North
Holland). "What a ridiculous costume!"

Sporting Constable (with stop-watch—on "police trap"
duty, running excitedly out from his ambush, to motorist just nearing
the finish of the measured furlong). "For 'evin's sake, guv'nor, let
'er rip, and ye'll do the 220 in seven and a 'arf!"

MY MOTOR CAP

[Motor-caps, we are informed, have created such a vogue in the
Provinces, that ladies, women and factory girls may be seen wearing them
on every occasion, though unconnected, in other respects, with modern
methods of locomotion.]

No, this isn't a collection of tubercular microbes
escaping from the congress; but merely the Montgomery-Smiths in their
motor-car, enjoying the beauties of the country.

LINES BY A REJECTED AND DEJECTED CYCLIST