Dangle had left Jessie and Hoopdriver on the roadside about two miles from Botley.
Before Dangle came racing into their lives, Hoopdriver had been enjoying himself. He had just discovered that even the little wildflowers growing beside the road had names.
“Starflowers, wind-stars, St. John’s wort, willow herb, lords and ladies, bachelor’s buttons,” Jessie had told him.
Hoopdriver nodded wisely.
“Flowers are all different in South Africa, you know.”
It was a lucky excuse for not knowing anything about English flowers.
Then they heard a terrible noise.
Wheels rattled.
Hooves thundered.
A large black horse came charging around the bend, pulling a gig.
Dangle was sitting behind it, waving his arms wildly.
“Jessie Milton!” he shouted. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
The horse suddenly saw the bicycles and panicked.
It swerved toward the hedge.
Dangle was thrown from one side of the road to the other as he struggled to control it.
Then the whole ridiculous procession disappeared around the bend.
Jessie stared after him.
“He knew my name.”
Hoopdriver spoke at exactly the same moment.
“It was the bicycles that frightened the horse. I hope he hasn’t been hurt.”
Jessie looked at him.
“That was Mr. Dangle.”
This time Hoopdriver heard her properly.
His eyebrows shot up.
“What? You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord!”
“He was looking for me. I could tell. My stepmother must have sent him.”
Hoopdriver immediately wished he had returned the stolen bicycle.
Honesty really did seem like the best policy after all.
He looked nervously toward the bend in the road.
“He’ll come back,” he said. “He’s gone downhill, and there’s no way he can stop that horse quickly.”
Jessie had already pushed her bicycle onto the road.
“We have to go.”
Hoopdriver followed.
And so, just as the sun was going down, they began another escape.
This time they headed toward Bishops Waltham.
Hoopdriver took the rear position, which he considered the most dangerous place.
Every few minutes he looked over his shoulder.
Each time he did, his bicycle wandered dangerously across the road.
Jessie sometimes had to slow down and wait for him.
He was breathing heavily.
He hated the fact that his mouth kept falling open when he was tired.
After almost an hour of hard riding, they reached Winchester without seeing Dangle or anyone else following them.
The streets were already glowing with the yellow light of evening.
Hoopdriver looked around carefully.
“We shouldn’t stop here.”
Jessie frowned.
“Why not?”
“It’s too obvious. We need to keep moving.”
He insisted that they refill their bicycle lamps and continue toward Salisbury.
From Winchester, roads went in several directions.
Hoopdriver believed that suddenly turning west would confuse anyone following them.
The moon was rising, broad and golden, through the evening haze.
He remembered their ride from Bognor and briefly hoped the same romantic feeling might return.
But it didn’t.
Neither of them spoke.
They were both exhausted.
The road seemed endless.
Even small hills felt like mountains.
At last, when they reached the little village of Wallenstock, they stopped at a prosperous-looking inn and asked for rooms.
The landlady welcomed them warmly.
Later, as they went into the room where supper was being prepared, Hoopdriver caught sight of several men sitting in another part of the inn.
The door was partly open.
Smoke drifted through it.
There was a table covered with American cloth, several glasses, and a large tankard.
Hoopdriver heard someone make a remark.
A moment earlier, he had been feeling wonderfully important.
In his imagination, he was no longer an ordinary shop assistant.
He was a wealthy gentleman traveling secretly with a beautiful young woman.
He had handed their bicycles to an attendant with great dignity.
He had opened the door for Jessie like a perfect gentleman.
He imagined the villagers whispering.
“Who’s that?”
“Must be someone well-off. Look at those bicycles.”
Perhaps they would talk about how fashionable cycling had become.
Judges rode bicycles.
Bankers rode bicycles.
Actresses rode bicycles.
Important people did it too.
And perhaps wealthy people sometimes avoided expensive hotels and crowded resorts so they could travel quietly through the countryside.
Hoopdriver imagined the villagers noticing Jessie’s elegant appearance.
Then they would notice him.
A handsome, blue-eyed gentleman with a fair moustache.
Perhaps someone would whisper:
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were traveling under an assumed name.”
It was a delightful little fantasy.
Then he heard the remark from the other room.
It destroyed everything.
The exact words did not matter.
What mattered was the contempt behind them.
The speaker clearly did not believe Hoopdriver was anyone important.
His wonderful imaginary world collapsed instantly.
There was nothing left.
The man who had made the joke probably had no idea how deeply it had wounded him.
He may not even have known that Hoopdriver had heard it.
He had simply thrown out a cruel joke, just as a boy might throw a stone at a bird.
But the joke had hit its target.
And worse, it had insulted Jessie.
She apparently had not heard it.
At supper, she remained cheerful.
Hoopdriver, however, could hardly concentrate.
Every now and then he heard laughter drifting in from the public room.
He became convinced that they were laughing at Jessie and himself.
Jessie eventually said she was tired and went upstairs.
Hoopdriver opened the door for her with exaggerated politeness.
“Good night,” he said.
After she disappeared upstairs, he stood alone in the room.
Another burst of laughter came from the bar.
“Cads!” he muttered angrily.
During supper he had been preparing a speech.
Now he imagined himself storming into the room and putting these men in their place.
He would speak to them like a nobleman.
“How dare you insult a lady?”
He might demand their names.
He might threaten to report them to the local landowner.
He might warn them that they would hear from him again.
He would leave them terrified.
“Teach ’em better,” he muttered.
He twisted his moustache.
Then he walked toward the door.
He stopped.
Perhaps he should forget it.
He turned back.
But wasn’t he supposed to be a knight-errant?
Should a gentleman allow such behavior to go unchallenged?
He walked toward the door again.
A voice inside his head warned him that he was behaving like a complete fool.
That only made him more determined.
He crossed the hall, passed the bar, and entered the room.
Five men were sitting there.
One was a fat older man with several chins and a long pipe.
Another was a young man wearing gaiters.
There was a small bearded man with a toothless grin.
A comfortable-looking middle-aged man wore a velveteen jacket.
And there was a fair young man in a cheap brown suit and white tie.
The fat man looked up.
“Good evening.”
Hoopdriver tried to look terrifying.
“Good evening.”
“Fine day we’ve been having,” said the young man in the white tie.
“Very.”
Hoopdriver dragged a chair across the room and sat down facing them.
He had prepared a speech.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten how it began.
“Fine roads around here,” said the young man.
“Very,” Hoopdriver replied darkly.
He took a breath.
“The roads are fine. The weather is fine. But there are some damned unpleasant people around here.”
The young man wearing gaiters looked at him.
“Oh?”
Hoopdriver leaned forward.
“I came here tonight with a lady.”
The man with the gaiters smiled.
“Very nice lady, too.”
“I came here with a lady,” Hoopdriver repeated.
“We know,” said the fat man. “We saw you.”
The little bearded man chuckled.
“We heard you the first time.”
Hoopdriver lost his train of thought.
The fair young man tried to help.
“You were saying that you came here with a lady.”
“A lady,” the man with the gaiters repeated thoughtfully.
Hoopdriver glared at them.
“Some dirty cad made a remark as we passed this door.”
“Steady on,” said the fat man. “No need for names.”
“I’m not calling any of you dirty cads,” Hoopdriver said quickly. “I’m saying that someone in this room made a remark that showed he wasn’t fit to wipe boots on.”
He looked around the room.
“I want to know which one of you said it.”
The young man in the white tie raised an eyebrow.
“And what if we don’t tell you?”
Hoopdriver’s courage suddenly became much smaller.
“I’ll wipe my boots on him.”
There was a brief silence.
Then the little bearded man laughed.
The others looked at the young man in the white tie.
“Was it you, Charlie?” someone asked.
Charlie looked uncomfortable.
Hoopdriver stared at him.
“Was it this gentleman?”
“Of course,” Charlie said. “If you’re talking about wiping boots—”
“I’m not talking,” Hoopdriver interrupted.
“I’m going to do it.”
The room suddenly became very interested.
Hoopdriver realized that he had gone too far to turn back.
Apparently he was going to have to fight.
He wondered whether he would get another black eye.
He wondered whether he would be badly hurt.
And he desperately hoped he wouldn’t have to fight the sturdy man in the gaiters.
He looked at Charlie.
“Is this the man?”
“Go on,” said the little bearded man. “Teach him a lesson.”
“Steady,” Charlie said. “If I did happen to say something—”
“You did say it?”
Charlie hesitated.
“Perhaps.”
“Then I’m going to teach you to keep your jokes to yourself.”
The man in the velveteen jacket smiled.
“Charlie does get a little too free with his jokes.”
“It’s disgusting,” Hoopdriver declared.
“A lady can’t ride a bicycle down a country road without some dirty little fellow shouting insults at her.”
Charlie raised both hands.
“I didn’t know she’d hear me.”
“You knew the door was open.”
“I was only joking.”
“You meant to make the joke,” Hoopdriver said angrily.
“I didn’t mean any real harm.”
“You’ve had your fun.”
Hoopdriver pointed at him.
“Now I’ll make an example of you.”
Charlie looked increasingly worried.
“What’s the point of fighting in a public house?”
“I’ll fight you wherever you like,” said Hoopdriver.
The man in the velveteen jacket spoke up.
“He insulted you, Charlie. If you’re going to say things like that, you should be prepared to defend them.”
“Exactly,” said the man with the gaiters. “Don’t be a coward.”
Charlie became desperate.
“I’ve got work tomorrow night! I have to serve dinner. What am I supposed to look like with a black eye?”
The man with the gaiters laughed.
“Then you should have kept your mouth shut.”
“Exactly,” said Hoopdriver fiercely.
“Why didn’t you keep your ugly mouth shut?”
Charlie sighed.
“I could lose my job.”
“You should have thought about that first.”
Charlie looked around helplessly.
“I only meant it as a joke.”
He finally gave Hoopdriver a reluctant apology.
“As one gentleman to another, I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Hoopdriver felt slightly better.
At least Charlie had admitted he was a gentleman.
But now Hoopdriver had to maintain his dignity.
“You’re a miserable fellow,” someone told Charlie.
Charlie suddenly shouted:
“I’m not afraid of him!”
Hoopdriver stiffened.
His opponent had found his courage again.
“Now what?” Hoopdriver thought.
The man in the velveteen jacket shook his head.
“If you’re going to fight, then fight.”
“All right!” Charlie suddenly stood up.
“If I have to, I have to.”
Hoopdriver stood too.
His stomach dropped.
His own inner voice had been right.
This had gone completely out of control.
They stood about six feet apart, with a table between them.
Hoopdriver stared at Charlie.
This was not how he had imagined things.
He had entered the room intending to deliver a dignified speech.
Now he was about to have a fistfight in a village pub.
And Charlie was almost certainly a footman.
How had everything gone so terribly wrong?
Before either man could attack, the fellow in gaiters stepped between them.
“Not here.”
Everyone stood up.
“Buller’s yard,” he said. “That’ll do.”
Apparently Buller’s yard was the traditional place for such matters.
“We’ll do this properly,” he said.
Before Hoopdriver fully understood what was happening, he was being led through the back of the inn.
He was on his way to the first fistfight of his life.
Outwardly, he tried to look calm and ready.
Inside, however, he was terrified.
Only a few minutes earlier he had been a dignified gentleman preparing a brilliant speech.
Now he was walking through a moonlit lane with several larger men toward some mysterious place called Buller’s yard.
He was going to fight with his fists.
It was absurd.
It was terrifying.
Charlie walked ahead of him.
“This is bloody ridiculous,” Charlie complained.
“He’s got his holiday. I’ve got dinner to serve tomorrow night.”
The man in gaiters held Charlie firmly by the arm.
“Easy.”
“I’m not trying to run away,” Charlie protested.
They entered Buller’s yard.
There were dark sheds everywhere.
The smell of animals hung in the air.
A water pump stood beside a whitewashed wall, casting a sharp shadow in the moonlight.
Hoopdriver looked around.
So this was where he was going to get beaten senseless.
He knew the whole thing was madness.
But he could not see a way out.
He touched his Norfolk jacket.
Maybe he could still run.
He could sprint back to the inn and lock himself in his room.
Surely they couldn’t force him out.
But then he saw Charlie standing opposite him.
Charlie’s face was pale in the moonlight.
There was no escape now.
The fight began.
Hoopdriver took a blow on the arm and stumbled backward.
Charlie came after him.
Hoopdriver swung with his right hand as hard as he could.
By pure luck, his fist struck Charlie directly on the jaw.
For one glorious second, Hoopdriver felt an incredible rush of triumph.
He had actually hit him.
Then Charlie hit him in the chest.
Hoopdriver stumbled backward.
He could barely stay on his feet.
“Good Lord!”
Charlie shouted and came at him again.
His fists seemed to be everywhere.
Hoopdriver ducked.
He moved to the side.
He swung and missed.
Charlie swung wildly.
One punch grazed Hoopdriver’s ear.
Then another struck him behind the ear.
The world suddenly spun.
The moon, the yard, the men—all of it seemed to whirl around him.
Then something unexpected happened.
Charlie suddenly turned and ran.
The man in gaiters rushed after him but was too late.
Charlie disappeared through the gate.
There was shouting and laughter.
Hoopdriver stood there, still holding his fists up.
Then he understood.
Charlie had run away.
By the rules of battle, Hoopdriver had won.
The little bearded man came over.
“That was a good punch you gave him under the jaw.”
Hoopdriver sat down beside the road toward Salisbury.
Church bells sounded faintly in the distance.
He tried to look calm and dignified.
“The truth is,” he said, “I had to teach the fellow a lesson.”
Jessie looked at him.
“It seems terrible that you had to hit someone.”
“These fellows become unbearable,” Hoopdriver said.
“If we don’t teach them a lesson once in a while, women won’t be able to ride bicycles on country roads at all.”
Jessie thought about it.
“I suppose women are naturally afraid of violence.”
“Perhaps.”
“Men must be braver.”
She looked at him with genuine admiration.
“I can’t imagine walking into a room full of rough men, choosing the strongest one, and beating him simply to defend a woman’s honor.”
Hoopdriver tried to appear modest.
“It was nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“It was simply my duty as a gentleman.”
“But you walked straight into danger.”
Hoopdriver flicked a little ash from his knee.
“That’s just habit.”