In Reflected Glory
Wheels! Wheels! Wheels! The boulevards were full of them, from the glistening up-to-date mount, back to the antiquated '91 model with its hard tires and widely curved handle-bars.
The sun struck the sheen of nickel and new enamel and sent a thousand little needles of light in all directions. Even the '91 model was beautiful in the light of the spring day, overtaken though it might be by the swiftly moving procession.
Wheels! Every man, woman, and child in the city of Chicago who could beg, borrow, or rent a bicycle, was speeding westward to the flagstaff at the entrance to the Garfield Park Loop. Every spoke and bar had been polished to the limit, and the long asphalt boulevard was a glittering, sparkling avenue of wheels.
Wheels! It was the day of the great road race, under the auspices of the Associated Cycling Clubs. The twenty-five mile course had been smoothed and measured, the sky was blue and cloudless, and far away in Wheeling four hundred eager cyclers awaited the bugle call.
John Gardner stood at the door of his news-room and watched with a wistful eye, the few hundred wheelmen who had chosen to ride on the business street that went past his door. The orange and black of the South Shore Club fluttered from many a shining bar, and at the sight of the colours the old man's face grew tender. For it was Jack's club that boasted the orange and black—Jack Gardner of the "Varsity, '98," and his only son. A touch on his arm made him turn his face within.
"Father," said a gentle voice, "why don't we go to the doin's?"
"Land sakes, Mother, who'd take care of the store?"
"Guess the store ain't goin' to run away, and we ain't been out in years. Let's go, Father, and see Jack ride!"
It was John Gardner's way to oppose everything at first, and then to generously give in. He liked to feel himself master in his own house, so he hesitated.