It wasn't long before he heard one. It was a lorry, driven by a young man with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Fatty hailed him.
"Hie! Stop a minute, there's a good-chap."
The lorry stopped. Fatty took a half-crown out of his pocket. "Would you mind stopping at the next garage and asking them to send out a taxi for me?" he said. "I've got a puncture, and I'm miles from anywhere, and don't want to have to walk home."
"Bad luck, mate," said the driver. "Where do you live?"
"Peterswood," said Fatty. "I don't know how far I've ridden this afternoon, but I imagine it must be about twenty miles away!"
"Oh, not so far as that, mate!" said the driver. "I'm going near Peterswood. Chuck your bike in the back of the lorry, climb up here beside me—and put your money away! I can give a chap a lift without being paid for it!"
"Oh, thanks awfully," said Fatty, and put away his half-crown. He lifted his bicycle into the lorry, and then climbed up beside the driver. He was very hot and tired, and terribly thirsty, but he chatted away in a friendly manner, glad to have this unexpected lift back.
"Here you are," said the driver, when they had rattled through the countryside for about twenty minutes. "Peterswood is not above a mile from here. You can walk that."
"Very many thanks," said Fatty, and jumped down. He took his bicycle and waved to the departing lorry. Then he walked smartly off in the direction of Peters-wood. He went home and put away his punctured bike. His father's bike was in the shed, so Fatty borrowed that, and off he went, quite cheerful, on his way to the Fair to see what the others were doing.
They were wondering what had happened to Fatty. They hadn't liked to leave the Fair, so they had had tea there, and were now conversing with the red-headed boy at the Waxworks, hearing for the twentieth time, the extraordinary tale of Napoleon's escapade in the night.