Mr. Hoopdriver’s first day of freedom did not end when he arrived in Guildford.
There was still plenty of time for adventure—or at least, plenty of time for him to imagine that there was.
As evening came, he wandered through the old town.
Later, he climbed up toward the Hogsback and looked down at the tiny lights appearing below him. Above, the first stars were beginning to shine.
One by one, the lights came on in the town, while the stars slowly appeared in the darkening sky.
Eventually, Hoopdriver returned to the Yellow Hammer Coffee Tavern.
He ate his supper in the common dining room, sitting among other men and feeling completely at home.
For once, he was not a shop assistant.
He was a man enjoying his holiday.
The conversation soon turned to flying machines and electricity.
Hoopdriver listened eagerly.
Someone said, “Flying machines are definitely coming. You mark my words.”
“Dead certain,” another man agreed.
“And electricity!” someone added. “Wonderful thing. Absolutely wonderful!”
Hoopdriver nodded wisely, as though he had spent years studying the subject.
“Wonderful,” he agreed.
Later, he went to watch some men playing billiards.
Whenever someone made a good shot, Hoopdriver would occasionally remark, with an air of great authority:
“Left ’em.”
He had no particular reason for saying it, but he enjoyed sounding as though he knew exactly what he was talking about.
Before long, however, he began to yawn.
The long day was finally catching up with him.
He took out his cycling map and studied it carefully.
The map showed the roads ahead of him, stretching from Guildford toward the southern coast.
Tomorrow there would be more roads, more villages, more countryside—and eventually the sea.
He was determined to see it all.
He also went into the writing room and marked the route he had already travelled, drawing a bright red line from London to Guildford.
He even recorded the day in the little diary inside his cycling handbook.
He wrote down what had happened, where he had been, and what he had seen.
It was a small record of what, to him, had been a magnificent day.
Eventually the yawning became impossible to ignore.
With great reluctance, Hoopdriver finally admitted that his wonderful first day of freedom had to end.
He collected a candle from a friendly maid in the hallway and went upstairs.
What happened after that is best left to the privacy of his bedroom.
But we can say this much.
Hoopdriver knelt beside his bed.
He was tired, happy, and already half asleep.
Then he began the prayer his mother had taught him nearly twenty years earlier.
“Our Father ’chartin’ heaven…”
He had learned the words so long ago that he could say them without thinking.
Soon he climbed into bed.
His breathing gradually became slow and regular.
And now, if we could quietly look into his room, we would find him fast asleep on his left side, one arm tucked beneath his pillow.
The room was dark, and most of his face was hidden in the shadows.
But if we could see him clearly, we might notice something surprising.
Despite his thin, uneven moustache, despite his rough language, despite all the foolish things he had done that day, there was nothing frightening or impressive about him now.
As he slept, Mr. Hoopdriver looked very young.
Almost like a little boy who had finally had a wonderful day and was dreaming happily about tomorrow.