Transcriber's Notes: From page scans of this book which was published as a serial in the Taranaki Herald (New Zealand), Vol. LXIII, Issue 144753, 9 August 1915 through Volume LXIII, Issue 144793, 24 September 1915 (Papers Past, National Library of New Zealand). See web site https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/TH19150807.2.57
THE RED BICYCLE.
By FERGUS HUME.
Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Turnpike House," "Tracked by a Tattoo," "The Crowned Skull," etc.
[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
[CHAPTER IV.]
[CHAPTER V.]
[CHAPTER VI.]
[CHAPTER VII.]
[CHAPTER VIII.]
[CHAPTER IX.]
[CHAPTER X.]
[CHAPTER XI.]
[CHAPTER XII.]
[CHAPTER XIII.]
[CHAPTER XIV.]
[CHAPTER XV.]
[CHAPTER XVI.]
[CHAPTER XVII.]
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
[CHAPTER XIX.]
[CHAPTER XX.]
[CHAPTER XXI.]
[CHAPTER XXII.]
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
[CHAPTER XXIV]
[CHAPTER XXV]
[CHAPTER XXVI]
THE RED BICYCLE.
[CHAPTER I.]
The dingy little cart containing the clean linen of the Rectory, was on its way by an unusually roundabout route. Neddy Mellin, the washer woman's son, who disliked work as much as he liked play, which was natural in a lad of thirteen, grumbled openly at the uncongenial task of driving the large white donkey. The animal herself, who answered to the name of Nelly, grumbled also in her own way, as she objected to innovations. Hitherto she had been allowed to take the short road to the parson's residence; now she was compelled to go by the long one, which was particularly annoying on this damp, misty November afternoon. With the obstinacy of her race she refused to trot, and although Neddy whipped her, coaxed her, and threatened her, Nelly tstill behaved as though she were attending a funeral. Mrs. Mellin did not mind. Throned amidst the bundles of linen, she peered through the fog for something she particularly wished to see. Only when the cart arrived midway down a melancholy, deserted thoroughfare, bordered by dripping elm-trees, did she speak. Then the cart stopped as she fancied she heard an order.
"There," said Mrs. Mellin, pointing with a fat, red finger at a dreary mansion which stood in a disorderly garden. "Maranatha! I never did 'ear of sich a queer name in all my born days."
"It's a scripter name, and has to do with cursing," explained her son, who, being a choir-boy, knew something about the Bible.