And so, dear Reader, our story comes to an end.
Mr. Hoopdriver is lying somewhere down there among the ferns and bushes. I think we should leave him alone for a while, without trying to hear what he is saying or even how he is breathing.
As for what happened afterward—the next six years and everything that came after them—that is not something we can tell you here.
In fact, no one can tell it yet.
Those years have not happened.
If you have come to understand how a simple shop assistant, an awkward man who was foolish enough to lie about himself, could suddenly discover how limited and unsatisfying his life had been, then perhaps you have also come to care about him.
If so, then this story has achieved what I hoped it would.
And if it hasn’t, well, may Heaven forgive both you and me.
We will not follow Jessie back to her home in Surbiton either.
There she will have to face a new struggle with Mrs. Milton and Widgery.
As you will soon discover, Widgery is about to receive his reward for all his efforts.
Jessie deserves your sympathy too.
There are still five days left of this holiday, but we will not follow every mile of them.
Instead, imagine a young man riding alone through Hampshire, Berkshire, and Surrey.
He is wearing a dusty brown suit, woollen stockings, and brown shoes that were never meant for cycling.
He is heading slowly toward London.
And he is doing it as cheaply as possible.
For very good reasons.
Day after day, he rides a little farther northeast.
Most of the time he stays on quiet country roads.
Sometimes he rides quickly.
Sometimes he stops and rests.
He is a thin young man with a narrow chest.
His nose has become red and brown from the unusual amount of time he has spent in the sun.
His hands are rough, with red knuckles.
And there is usually a thoughtful look on his face.
Sometimes he silently whistles to himself.
Sometimes he talks aloud.
“A juiced good try, anyhow!”
At other times, he becomes angry and discouraged.
“I know,” he says to himself.
“I know. It’s over.”
“It can’t happen now.”
“You’re not good enough, Hoopdriver.”
“Look at those ridiculous hands of yours!”
“Oh, my God!”
Then a sudden wave of emotion takes hold of him, and he pedals furiously for a while.
But sometimes his expression softens.
“Well, even if I never see her again,” he thinks, “she’s going to lend me books.”
That thought comforts him.
Then another thought follows.
“Books! What good are books?”
Every now and then, he remembers something from the journey that makes him feel proud.
“I stopped that fellow’s little game,” he tells himself.
“I did that.”
During those moments, he is almost happy.
And there is one other thing worth noticing.
His bicycle has now been painted grey.
It also has a loud bell.
The lonely rider passes through Basingstoke.
Then Bagshot.
Then Staines.
Then Hampton.
Then Richmond.
At last, he reaches Putney High Street.
The August sun is glowing over the street.
The young apprentices are busy closing the shops.
The shop girls are heading home.
Workers are coming out into the streets.
White buses carry tired clerks and office workers home for dinner.
And there, at last, we leave Mr. Hoopdriver.
He is home.
Tomorrow the early mornings begin again.
The cleaning.
The long hours.
The dull work.
The same old life.
But something has changed.
His old dreams have disappeared.
In their place are memories.
And, more importantly, new hopes.
New ambitions.
A desire to become something more than the man he was before.
At the corner of the High Street, he turns off the main road.
He gets off his bicycle with a tired sigh.
Then he pushes it through the gates of the Antrobus stable yard.
An apprentice wearing a high collar holds the gates open for him.
They exchange greetings.
“South Coast?”
“Yes.”
“Good weather?”
“Splendid weather. Splendid.”
The apprentice looks at the bicycle.
“What happened to the old machine?”
Hoopdriver gives a tired smile.
“Swapped him for a couple of sovereigns.”
Then he pats the bicycle.
“It’s a juiced good machine.”
The gates close behind him with a heavy bang.
And Mr. Hoopdriver disappears from our sight.