AT BOGNOR
a prompt atichew. It is the orthodox thing when you wish to avoid recognition. "As small as you have," he said, out of his pocket handkerchief.
"I ain't got none smaller than that," said the ostler.
"Won't do, really," said Hoopdriver, still wallowing in his handkerchief.
"I'll see wot they got in the 'ouse, if you like, sir," said the man. "If you would," said Hoopdriver. And as the man's heavily nailed boots went clattering down the yard, Hoopdriver stood up, took a noiseless step to the lady's machine, laid trembling hands on its handle and saddle, and prepared for a rush.
The scullery door opened momentarily and sent a beam of warm, yellow light up the road, shut again behind the man, and forthwith Hoopdriver rushed the machines towards the gate. A dark grey form came fluttering to meet him. "Give me this," she said, "and bring yours."
He passed the thing to her, touched her hand in the darkness, ran back, seized Bechamel's machine, and followed.
The yellow light of the scullery door suddenly flashed upon the cobbles again. It was too late now to do anything but escape. He heard the ostler shout behind him, and came into the road. She was up and dim already. He got into the saddle without a blunder. In a moment the ostler was in the gateway with a full-throated "Hi! sir! That ain't allowed;" and Hoopdriver was overtaking the Young Lady in Grey. The machine ran with astound-
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