Of course the faster I went, the easier it was to balance the machine, so I kept rolling on further and further away from the village, until at last I hadn't the slightest idea where I was or whither I was going.
"This will never do," I finally decided. "It will be lunch-time before I can get back."
Then a brilliant thought struck me. I would turn around at the next cross-roads, where there would be plenty of room.
About five minutes later I reached one, and making a wide circuit, had nearly accomplished my object in safety, when a farmer's wagon appeared upon the scene, almost in front of me.
"Hold on a minute!" I shouted; but it was too late. The horse could not be stopped short enough, and I stopped too short, being sent sprawling on the ground right where the wagon's hind-wheels had been two seconds before.
This final and worst fall of all left me so bruised and sprained and strained that I found it impossible to get into the saddle again.
If I had been in America I might have climbed up by the help of a fence, but in England the fences are all hedges. So there was nothing left for me to do but push the bicycle back to the village again, and walk myself every step of the way. I don't know how far it was, but going out it seemed about a mile, and coming back I thought it must be five.
That Man did not ask me if I had had a pleasant run, but when I had paid him for the two hours I had been out, and he was handing me back my watch, I saw him look down at the dust on my shoes in a way that made me hurry off home, feeling like the dying swan I've read about somewhere that only sings one song in its life, for I had ridden a bicycle for the first and last time in mine.