“Now I’ll race you, Mr Wagram.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. When I consented to take charge of you—a weighty responsibility in itself—I did so on condition that it was at your own risk. In short, the average railway company couldn’t have contracted itself out of its liabilities more completely.”
They were skimming along at the rate of about ten miles an hour, and that on an ideal road, smooth, dustless, and shaded by overhanging woods. Yvonne was trying how far she could ride with both hands off the handlebars, and performing various reckless feats, to the no small anxiety of her escort.
“Slow down here,” said the latter. “This pace isn’t safe; too many rabbits.”
“Too many rabbits?” echoed the girl. Then she gave forth a peal of laughter.
“Yes; it’s a screaming joke, isn’t it? But it may surprise you to hear that I’ve known of more than one bad spill caused by a fool of a rabbit dodging under the wheel, especially at night.”
“Really? You’re not stuffing me?”
“Well, can’t you see for yourself how easily the thing might happen? They’re crossing the road in gangs in both directions, and a rabbit is sometimes as great a fool as a human being in crossing a road, in that it is liable to change its mind and run back again. Result in either case, a bad spill for the bicyclist. You needn’t go far for an instance. Saunders, the chemist’s assistant in Bassingham, was nearly killed that way. He was coasting down Swanton Hill in the moonlight, and a rabbit ran under his wheel. He was chucked off, and got concussion of the brain.”
“Fancy being killed by a rabbit!”
“Yes. Sounds funny, doesn’t it? Here’s Pritchett’s.”