Colonel Witham, grasping one of the handle-bars, eyed the velocipede almost longingly.
"No," he said. "I'm too old and stout now. Guess my riding days are over. But I used to make it go once, I tell you."
"Go ahead, get on. You can ride it," urged Tim Reardon. "It won't break."
"Oh no, it will hold me, all right," said Colonel Witham. "We didn't have any busted tires in our day. Good iron rim there that'll last for ever."
"Just try it a little way," said Bess Thornton.
"I never saw anybody ride that had won medals," said Tim Reardon.
Colonel Witham's pride was rapidly getting the better of his discretion.
"Oh, I can ride it," he said, "only it's—it's kind of hot to try it. Makes me feel sort of like a boy, though, to get hold of the thing."
The colonel lifted a fat leg over the backbone and put a ponderous foot on one pedal, while the drops of perspiration began to stand out on his forehead.
"Get out of the way," he shouted. "I'll just show you how it goes—hanged if I don't."