Considerably strengthened in my purpose by this method of reasoning, I seized the handle with a flourish, and started to trundle the machine out into the road.
"Be careful there," suddenly cried That Man, as my flourish nearly caused the bicycle to take a "header" on its own account.
After pushing the machine as far as I dared without giving rise to the suspicion that that was the only way I could make it go, I brought it to a stand-still, placed both hands on the handles, a foot on the step, and—waited a minute.
I finally nerved myself to take the flying leap, which sent me into the saddle so surely and swiftly that I could not rest there, but in my high ambition kept on going until I found my hands on the ground, the handles knocking against my knees, and both wheels running up my back.
I knew at once that I had taken a "header," and so I did not feel as badly as I would if I had fallen in a manner not dignified by a special name.
I had simply been too eager, and resolving to profit by experience, I began hopping again; then gave a gentle—a very gentle—spring, which landed me on the extreme rear of the saddle, where I hung helpless for a few seconds, with both feet wildly pawing the air in search of the pedals, which of course I could not reach.
There could be but one end to this gymnastic exhibition, and while I lay on the road, with the bicycle on top of me, I vowed I would try but once more, and if the magic third time did not inspire me to success, I would give it up, push the machine back to the shop, and ever afterward look upon the sport as a mere "craze" that would soon die out.
Again I broke into that everlasting hop.
"Not too fast,
Nor yet too slow;
Gently, quickly,
Here I go."
I don't know whether it was owing to the rhyme, but at any rate my next attempt to mount resulted in my sliding nicely into the saddle, while at the same time my feet bore down upon the pedals, which sent me skimming along famously. On and on I went, gliding as smoothly and easily over the fine road as if in a carriage.