Walton and I are awfully proud of father for winning the Century from all the fast boys of the Cycling Club, but we don't pride ourselves on these short spurts. Our specialty is thousand-mile affairs, and if he wants to race us he has got to race the whole thousand. Good night.
Your loving son,————Arthur.
Rochester, N. Y., June 21, 1896.
Dear Father:—
We called on our Uncle Sherman Richardson, and he was very proud of us, introducing us to many of his friends, saying that the blood in our veins was the same as ran in his, and that showed the kind of stuff his family was made of. I received your letter at Cleveland, telling us about your century run, and advising us to reserve our strength until we reached your time of life. It naturally stiffened our backbone for the remaining part of our ride.
Memphis, N. Y., June 24, 1896.
Dear Father:—
I must write just a word, for Walton has had a lucky escape. We were pushing along sleepily today when a big Newfoundland dog came near killing Walton. I looked around just in time to see Walton plunge over an embankment into a snarl of milkweeds, briars and rocks, head down, with his wheel on top of him. He said the dog barked so fiercely that when he made the plunge he actually thought he felt the ugly beast's breath on the seat of his pants. We soon discovered that the dog was tied to a tree, so we went about to repair his wheel. The front wheel must have been caught between two rocks, when Walton's weight on it (for a frightened man weighs heavy) doubled up the forks like a jack knife. We got a blacksmith to heat and hammer it out and now both Walton and the wheel are in a good ridable condition, and we shall light out again early in the morning. Are you getting my postals, which I am sending back from every town? This is to prove to the club boys that we rode to Connecticut on our wheels and not on the train.
Crystal Lake, Conn., June 28, 1896.
Dear Father:—