"Hullo, sewing? I say, did you paint my peg? How jolly nice of you!"
She looked up. "Your peg? Whatever do you mean?"
"That record distance peg of mine. Painted it white, haven't you?"
"No, I didn't paint it!"
"Who the dickens—? Well, I'll just wash my hands. Not had tea, have you? Good."
When Low Jinks came to his room with hot water—a detail of the perfect appointment of the house under Mabel's management was her rule that Rebecca always came to the door for the master's bicycle, handed him the brush for his shoes and trousers, and then took hot water to his room—he asked her, "I say, Low Jinks, did you paint that peg of mine?"
Low Jinks coloured and spoke apologetically: "Well, I thought it would show up better, sir. There was a drop of whitewash in—"
"By Jove, it does. It looks like a regular winning-post. Jolly nice of you, Low."
Two months afterwards the bicycle did the worst on record. This was a surprising affair; the runs had recently been excitingly good; and when Low Jinks came out to take the bicycle he greeted her: "I say, Low Jinks, I only got just up to Mr. Fargus's gate just now. Worst I've ever done."
Low Jinks was enormously concerned. "Well! I never did!" exclaimed Low Jinks. "If those bicycles aren't just things! You'll want a peg for that, sir. Like you had one for the best."