"Is that it?" he said dully.
"That's it, sir," said the chauffeur.
There was only one adjective to describe this push-bike—the adjective "blackguardly." It had that leering air, shared by some parrots and the baser variety of cat, of having seen and been jauntily familiar with all the sin of the world. It looked low and furtive. Its handle-bars curved up instead of down, it had gaps in its spokes, and its pedals were naked and unashamed. A sans-culotte of a bicycle. The sort of bicycle that snaps at strangers.
"H'm!" said Soapy, ruminating.
"Yes," said Soapy, still ruminating.
Then he remembered again how imperative was the need of reaching Healthward Ho somehow.
"All right," he said, with a shudder.
He climbed onto the machine, and after one majestic wobble passed through the gates into the park, pedalling bravely. As he disappeared from view, there floated back to Bolt, standing outside the stable yard, a single, agonized "Ouch!"
Chauffeurs do not laugh, but they occasionally smile. Bolt smiled. He had been bitten by that bicycle himself.