in all that arid stretch of semi desert, a 

 rise of perhaps three hundred feet. 



It is enough. You will find that your 

 head is a sea of dizziness, that your 

 lungs have refused to work, that your 

 heart is pounding aloud in agony, and 

 you will then and there pronounce the 

 wheel an instrument of torture, devised 

 for the undoing of woman. 



I tried it. It cured me, and, once 

 cured, the charms of the wheel are as 

 vapid as the defence of a vigilant com- 

 mittee to the man it means to hang. 

 Stubborn — it would not go a step with- 

 out being pushed. It would not even 

 stand up by itself, and I literally had to 

 push it — it, as well as myself on it — in 

 toil and dust and heat the whole way. 

 Nimrod said his bicycle betrayed itself, 

 too, only not so badly. Of course, that 

 was because he was stronger. The 



