The sight of them brought back a flood of the ghost-like memories which always puzzled Pierre. It seemed to him that sometime, long ago, he too had ridden a bicycle, but he could not remember where or when.
He was puzzling over this, in a dreamy way, when a shout from one of the men made him start, and brought his mind quickly back to the present. Something had plainly happened to the travellers, for they had both dismounted, and one of them had noticed him and was waving to him. Here indeed was a piece of good luck—a great adventure, in fact—for Madame Genviève could not scold him for going down to the road, seeing that the men had called to him.
With a hurried look to see that Nanette was grazing quietly, he slid from the rock on which he had been lying, and ran down the hillside. The strangers were two young Frenchmen, artists from Paris apparently, for they carried paint-boxes and canvas strapped to their bicycles. Their pure Parisian French smacked of the capital. It was lost on Pierre, however, for he only spoke the patois of the district, which is as distinct from French as Welsh is from English.
No words were needed to show what had happened, however. A great broad-headed nail from a passing peasant’s sabot had pierced the back wheel of one of the bicycles, and the tire was flat and useless, every bit of air having escaped. The owner of the bicycle had got out all his appliances for mending the puncture, but had been unable to locate it, and he was looking round in despair for water.
With lively gestures and torrents of voluble French he tried to make Pierre understand what was wanted, and patted him gratefully on the back when the boy led him to a little spring which he had noticed on his way down the hill.
Alas! the first difficulty had been overcome, only to be followed by a second; for how was the water to be conveyed to the roadside?
Taking off his cap, the gentleman tried to use it as a basin, but the water ran through it as if it were a sieve, and with a gesture of despair he shouted to his friend to carry the injured bicycle over the grass to the spring.
‘Stop! this will do,’ said Pierre suddenly in such good English that the artist started. He had studied art in a London studio, and knew the language fairly well.
‘Do you talk English?’ he asked in surprise.