“Yes, it’s pretty high—48 inches. My legs are long, you see. Well, where are we to run to-day?”
“Wherever you like,” said Sam, “only let it be a short run, not more than forty miles, for I’ve got an appointment this afternoon with my old dad which I can’t get off.”
“That’ll do very well,” said Welland, “so we can go round by—”
Here he described a route by country road and village, which we pretend not to remember. It is sufficient to know that it represented the required “short” run of forty miles—such is the estimate of distance by the youth of the present day!
“Now then, off we go,” said Welland, giving his wheel—he quite ignored the existence of the little thing at the back—a shove, putting his left foot on the treadle, and flinging his right leg gracefully over.
Young Twitter followed suit, but Sammy was neither expert nor graceful. True, he could ride easily, and travel long distances, but he could only mount by means of the somewhat clumsy process of hopping behind for several yards.
Once up, however, he went swiftly enough alongside his tall companion, and the two friends thereafter kept abreast.
“Oh! isn’t it a charming sensation to have the cool air fanning one’s cheeks, and feel the soft tremor of the wheel, and see the trees and houses flow past at such a pace? It is the likest thing to flying I ever felt,” said Welland, as they descended a slight incline at, probably, fifteen miles an hour.
“It is delightful,” replied Sam, “but, I say, we better put on the brakes here a bit. It gets much steeper further down.”
Instead of applying the brake, however, young Welland, in the exuberance of his joy, threw his long legs over the handles, and went down the slope at railway speed, ready, as he remarked, for a jump if anything should go wrong.