"Take us for strolling minstrels, I dare say," rejoined Pratt. "Lucky I didn't bring my banjo."
"Our blazers make us a trifle conspicuous," said Warrender. "I say, as we've plenty of time before dark, and I don't want to run into that crowd at the inn again, suppose we stroll on."
They passed the general dealer's, soon left the last of the cottages behind them, and rambled along the grassy bank of the road, which wound across a wide and barren heath land. About half a mile from the village they came to narrower cross-roads, leading apparently to the few scattered farmsteads of the neighbourhood. A few yards beyond this they saw, rounding a bend, a girl on a bicycle coasting down a slight hill towards them.
"The fair maid in white!" said Pratt. "I think my banjo ought to have been a guitar, or a lute, whatever that is."
A loud report startled them all. The bicycle wobbled, stopped, and the girl sprang lightly from her saddle, and bent down to examine the front tyre. She rose just before the boys reached her, gave them a fleeting glance, and started to wheel the machine down the road.
After a brief hesitation Warrender turned towards her, lifting his cap.
"Can I be of any assistance?" he asked.
"Oh, please don't trouble," replied the girl. "It's a frightfully bad puncture, and I haven't very far to go."
"Some distance across the ferry?"
"Well, yes; but this will take a long time, and I really couldn't think of----"