I do not think we rested once during that long afternoon. But after a hundred kilometres I must confess we began to lose our first freshness. There were so many long up-grades, the roads were not so good, the peasants were disagreeable, trying to run us down, or else stupid, refusing to answer our questions; and the sign-posts and kilometre-stones were all wrong. We were so near, it seemed foolish not to push on to Lyons. For once we would make a record, and beat the good horse from St. Symphorien. But it was hard work the last part of the ride.—And when we came to the suburbs of the city the people laughed and stared, and
screamed after us, as if they had been Londoners. We had their laughter, pavé, carts, and street cars the rest of the way; and when we crossed the river, “I had better get down,” said I; and so I walked into Lyons, J—— on the tricycle moving slowly before me over the pavé and between the carts.—No one could or would direct us to the hotel; policemen were helpless when we appealed to them; but just as J—— was opening his mouth to give them to the devil—’tis Mr. Sterne’s expression, not mine or J——’s—a small boy stepped nimbly across the street and pointed around the corner to the Hôtel des Négociants.
That evening in the café we read in the paper that the wind had been blowing sixty-six kilometres an hour.
