They both greet Mrs. Perkins.
Yardsley. Hullo, Brad! You going to have a lesson too?
Barlow. Dressed for it, aren’t you, by Jove! Nothing like a dinner coat for a bicycle ride. Your coat-tails don’t catch in the gear.
Bradley (severely). I haven’t taken it up—fact is, I don’t care for fads. Have you seen my wife?
Yardsley. Yes—saw her the other night at the academy. Rides mighty well, too, Brad. Don’t wonder you don’t take it up. Contrast, you know—eh, Perk? Fearful thing for a man to have the world see how much smarter his wife is than he is.
Perkins (turning to his wheel). Bradley’s a little worried about the non-arrival of Mrs. Bradley. She was coming here on her wheel, and started about the same time he did.
Barlow. Oh, that’s all right, Ned. She knows her wheel as well as you know your business. Can’t come down quite as fast as the “L,” particularly these nights just before election. She may have fallen in with some political parade, and is waiting to get across the street.
Bradley (aside). Well, I like that!
Mrs. Perkins (aside). Why—it’s awful!
Yardsley. Or she may possibly have punctured her tire—that would delay her fifteen or twenty minutes. Don’t worry, my dear boy. I showed her how to fix a punctured tire all right. It’s simple enough—you take the rubber thing they give you and fasten it in that metal thingumbob, glue it up, poke it in, pull it out, pump her up, and there you are.