"There's no false pride about Jack," said Grim, gloating over the weird
mount. "Whatever is he doing in here?"

"Liquid refreshment," said Rogers between a gulp and a gasp. "Oh, Jack,
was it for this and this that you gave us the go-by?"

"This place doesn't seem Jack's form somehow," said Wilson, looking
doubtfully up and down the little inn.

"Ring him out, Wilson," said Grim. "His little game's up now, and we can
rag him for an age over this."

"Let's try his mount first, Grimmy." Rogers wheeled out the machine and,
after hopping twenty yards, "found" the saddle. To mount it was one
thing, to ride it was evidently a matter of liberal education beyond the
attainments of a junior Amorian, for, as Rogers attempted a modest sweep
round, the machine collapsed, and he was sprawling on his back, the
bicycle rattling about his ears. Then--it seemed automatically to the
gasping Amorians--a sturdy youth rushed out of the inn flourishing a
half-emptied glass of beer in one hand, and he seized the struggling
Rogers by the scruff of the neck with the other. Rogers was
unceremoniously jerked to his feet before he quite realized what it was
all about. One or two men lounged out of the inn, and surveyed the scene
dispassionately, and the landlord pushed his way forward.

"Wot's the matter?"

"Matter!" gasped the youth, tightening his hold on Rogers' collar and
waving his glass dramatically.