The Bicycle (answering by a succession of saddle-creaks). Perfectly. I'm a kind of horse myself, I believe, only greatly improved, of course. Would you mind not breathing on my handle-bars like that? It tarnishes the plating so. The saddle is the seat of my intelligence, if you will kindly address your remarks here.
Bayard. I beg your pardon. I will in future. I don't creak myself, but I've been closely connected with saddles ever since I was a two-year-old, so I can follow you fairly well. Didn't I hear my mistress's voice outside just now?
The Bicycle. No; my mistress's, Miss Diana's. I'd just taken her out for a short spin—not far, only fifteen miles or so.
Bayard. Then, she—she's quite well?
The Bicycle. Thanks, she's pedalling pretty strong just now. I'm going out with her again this afternoon.
Bayard. Again! You will have had a hard day of it altogether, then. But I suppose you'll get a day or two's rest afterwards? I know I should want it.
The Bicycle. Bless you, I never want rest. Why, I've been forty miles with her, and come home without clanking a link! She was knocked up, if you like—couldn't go out for days!
Bayard. Ah, she was never knocked up after riding me!
The Bicycle. Because—it's no fault of yours, of course, but the way you've been constructed—you couldn't go far enough to knock anybody up. And she doesn't get tired now, either. I'm not the kind of bicycle to boast; but I've often heard her say that she much prefers her "bike" (she always calls me her "bike"—very nice and friendly of her, isn't it?) to any mere horse.
Bayard. To any mere horse! And does she—give any reasons?