Robert Michael Ballantyne - Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished - A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure

Presently they came to a steep hill. It was not steep enough to necessitate dismounting, but it rendered a rush inadvisable. They therefore worked up slowly, and, on gaining the top, got off to breathe and rest a while.

“That was a glorious run, wasn’t it, Sam?” said Welland, flicking the dust from his knees with his handkerchief. “What d’ye say to a glass of beer?”

“Can’t do it, Stephen, I’m Blue Ribbon.”

“Oh! nonsense. Why not do as I do—drink in moderation?”

“Well, I didn’t think much about it when I put it on,” said Sam, who was a very sensitive, and not very strong-minded youth; “the rest of us did it, you know, by father’s advice, and I joined because they did.”

Welland laughed rather sarcastically at this, but made no rejoinder, and Sam, who could not stand being laughed at, said—

“Well, come, I’ll go in for one glass. I’ll be my own doctor, and prescribe it medicinally! Besides, it’s an exceptional occasion this, for it is awfully hot.”

“It’s about the best run I ever had in the same space of time,” said Welland on quitting the beer shop.

“First-rate,” returned Sam, “I wish my old dad could ride with us. He would enjoy it so.”

“Couldn’t we bring him out on a horse? He could ride that, I suppose?”

“Never saw him on a horse but once,” said Sam, “and that time he fell off. But it’s worth suggesting to him.”

“Better if he got a tricycle,” said Welland.

“I don’t think that would do, for he’s too old for long rides, and too short-winded. Now, Stephen, I’m not going to run down this hill. We must take it easy, for it’s far too steep.”

“Nonsense, man, it’s nothing to speak of; see, I’ll go first and show you the way.”

He gave the treadle a thrust that sent him off like an arrow from a bow.

“Stay! there’s a caravan or something at the bottom—wild beasts’ show, I think! Stop! hold on!”

But Sam Twitter shouted in vain. Welland’s was a joyous spirit, apt to run away with him. He placed his legs over the handles for security, and allowed the machine to run. It gathered speed as it went, for the hill became steeper, insomuch that the rider once or twice felt the hind-wheel rise, and had to lean well back to keep it on the ground. The pace began to exceed even Welland’s idea of pleasure, but now it was too late to use the brake, for well did he know that on such a slope and going at such a pace the slightest check on the front wheel would send him over. He did not feel alarmed however, for he was now near the bottom of the hill, and half a minute more would send him in safety on the level road at the foot.

But just at the foot there was a sharpish turn in the road, and Welland looked at it earnestly. At an ordinary pace such a turn could have been easily taken, but at such a rate as he had by that time attained, he felt it would require a tremendous lean over to accomplish it. Still he lost no confidence, for he was an athlete by practice if not by profession, and he gathered up his energies for the moment of action.

The people of the caravan—whoever they were—had seen him coming, and, beginning to realise his danger to some extent, had hastily cleared the road to let him pass.

Welland considered the rate of speed; felt, rather than calculated, the angle of inclination; leaned over boldly until the tire almost slipped sideways on the road, and came rushing round with a magnificent sweep, when, horrible sight! a slight ridge of what is called road-metal crossed the entire road from side to side! A drain or water pipe had recently been repaired, and the new ridge had not yet been worn down by traffic. There was no time for thought or change of action. Another moment and the wheel was upon it, the crash came, and the rider went off with such force that he was shot well in advance of the machine, as it went with tremendous violence into the ditch. If Welland’s feet had been on the treadles he must have turned a complete somersault. As it was he alighted on his feet, but came to the ground with such force that he failed to save himself. One frantic effort he made and then went down headlong and rolled over on his back in a state of insensibility.

When Sam Twitter came to the bottom of the hill with the brake well applied he was able to check himself in time to escape the danger, and ran to where his friend lay.

For a few minutes the unfortunate youth lay as if he had been dead. Then his blood resumed its flow, and when the eyes opened he found Sam kneeling on one side of him with a smelling bottle which some lady had lent him, and a kindly-faced elderly man with an iron-grey beard kneeling on the other side and holding a cup of water to his lips.

“That’s right, Stephen, look up,” said Sam, who was terribly frightened, “you’re not much hurt, are you?”

“Hurt, old fellow, eh?” sighed Stephen, “why should I be hurt? Where am I? What has happened?”

“Take a sip, my young friend, it will revive you,” said the man with the kindly face. “You have had a narrow escape, but God has mercifully spared you. Try to move now; gently—we must see that no bones have been broken before allowing you to rise.”

By this time Welland had completely recovered, and was anxious to rise; all the more that a crowd of children surrounded him, among whom he observed several ladies and gentlemen, but he lay still until the kindly stranger had felt him all over and come to the conclusion that no serious damage had been done.

“Oh! I’m all right, thank you,” said the youth on rising, and affecting to move as though nothing had happened, but he was constrained to catch hold of the stranger rather suddenly, and sat down on the grass by the road-side.

“I do believe I’ve got a shake after all,” he said with a perplexed smile and sigh. “But,” he added, looking round with an attempt at gaiety, “I suspect my poor bicycle has got a worse shake. Do look after it, Sam, and see how it is.”

Twitter soon returned with a crestfallen expression. “It’s done for, Stephen. I’m sorry to say the whole concern seems to be mashed up into a kind of wire-fencing!”

“Is it past mending, Sam?”

“Past mending by any ordinary blacksmith, certainly. No one but the maker can doctor it, and I should think it would take him a fortnight at least.”

“What is to be done?” said Stephen, with some of his companion’s regret of tone. “What a fool I was to take such a hill—spoilt such a glorious day too—for you as well as myself, Sam. I’m very sorry, but that won’t mend matters.”

“Are you far from home, gentlemen?” asked the man with the iron-grey beard, who had listened to the conversation with a look of sympathy.

“Ay, much too far to walk,” said Welland. “D’you happen to know how far off the nearest railway station is?”

“Three miles,” answered the stranger, “and in your condition you are quite unfit to walk that distance.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” replied the youth, with a pitiful look. “I think I’m game for three miles, if I had nothing to carry but myself, but I can’t leave my bicycle in the ditch, you know!”

“Of course you can’t,” rejoined the stranger in a cheery tone, “and I think we can help you in this difficulty. I am a London City Missionary. My name is John Seaward. We have, as you see, brought out a number of our Sunday-school children, to give them a sight of God’s beautiful earth; poor things, they’ve been used to bricks, mortar, and stone all their lives hitherto. Now, if you choose to spend the remainder of the day with us, we will be happy to give you and the injured bicycle a place in our vans till we reach a cabstand or a railway station. What say you? It will give much pleasure to me and the teachers.”