But to me, as I rode it along the pleasant, shaded sidewalks of Elm Street on that morning, it was a chariot of joy.
Naturally, I paused for a moment at Mr. Hawkins's gate to exchange salutations with that gentleman. Mr. Hawkins did not believe that it would rain: though it might. Fortified with this information, I continued past Jimmy Toppan's house, past the frog pond and the school. I proceeded at a moderate rate,—not over three-quarters of a mile an hour. At the street crossings, paved as they were with cobblestones, it was, on the whole, easier to dismount and wheel my velocipede.
When I reached Higginson's toy-shop I stopped again, flattened my nose against the window, and observed the condition of the market. There had been a sharp break in marbles, evidently,—they were now offered at fifteen for a cent. Return-balls remained firm, however; and tops had advanced. After I had noted these facts, and concluded, further, that some one had, since yesterday, purchased two of the five sticks of striped candy from the glass jar in the window, I continued on my journey.
Fifteen minutes later I reached the Bigelow house,—a square, three-storied residence set a little back from the street. The front door was open, and you could look right through the broad, cool hall, through a back door, and down the garden path. Everything about the house was big, and quiet, and cool, and there was no one to be seen, and no sign of any one,—except for a tall bicycle which stood at the curb-stone.
I knew that bicycle: it belonged to a neighbor of mine,—Mr. Dennett. He was a grave, elderly man of nearly twenty-one years. Before him I stood in speechless awe. Most of the time, except in summer, he was away at a place called Harvard, which drew many of his kind.
In summer he, with others like him, rode about on bicycles, and did various interesting things. Often they played tennis at a place farther up Elm Street. Sometimes, on these occasions, Ed Mason and I had been allowed to stand outside the high wire nets, and fetch back balls when they were knocked into the street,—a privilege which we especially esteemed.
The balls were of the most fascinating kind imaginable: they would bounce to a tremendous height, and it was rumored that they cost thirty cents apiece.
I wondered why Mr. Dennett was at the Bigelows'.
However, there was my note to deliver. I left my red velocipede standing beside the enormous bicycle, and rang the front door-bell. After a long wait, a very red-faced, cross-looking woman—not Mrs. Bigelow at all—came to the door.