rt that never rejoices, and Whitsuntide had an air of
coming as an agreeable break in the business complications of Grubb &
Smallways. Encouraged by the practical outcome of Bert's negotiations
with his brother, and by the fact that half the hiring-stock was
out from Saturday to Monday, they decided to ignore the residuum of
hiring-trade on Sunday and devote that day to much-needed relaxation and
refreshment--to have, in fact, an unstinted good time, a beano on Whit
Sunday and return invigorated to grapple with their difficulties and
the Bank Holiday repairs on the Monday. No good thing was ever done
by exhausted and dispirited men. It happened that they had made the
acquaintance of two young ladies in employment in Clapham, Miss Flossie
Bright and Miss Edna Bunthorne, and it was resolved therefore to make
a cheerful little cyclist party of four into the heart of Kent, and to
picnic and spend an indolent afternoon and evening among the trees and
bracken between Ashford and Maidstone.

Miss Bright could ride a bicycle, and a machine was found for her, not
among the hiring stock, but specially, in the sample held for sale. Miss
Bunthorne, whom Bert particularly affected, could not ride, and so with
some difficulty he hired a basket-work trailer from the big business of
Wray's in the Clapham Road.

To see our young men, brightly dressed and cigarettes alight, wheeling
off to the rendezvous, Grubb guiding the lady's machine beside him with
one skilful hand and Bert teuf-teuffing steadily, was to realise how
pluck may triumph even over insolvency. Their landlord, the butcher,
said, "Gurr," as they passed, and shouted, "Go it!" in a loud, savage
tone to their receding backs.

Much they cared!

The weather was fine, and though they were on their way southward before
nine o'clock, there was already a great multitude of holiday people
abroad upon the roads. There were quantities of young men and women on
bicycles and motor-bicycles, and a majority of gyroscopic motor-cars
running bicycle-fashion on two wheels, mingled with old-fashioned
four-wheeled traffic. Bank Holiday times always bring out old
stored-away vehicles and odd people; one saw tricars and electric
broughams and dilapidated old racing motors with huge pneumatic tyres.
Once our holiday-makers saw a horse and cart, and once a youth riding a
black horse amidst the badinage of the passersby. And there were several
navigable gas air-ships, not to mention balloons, i