In Normandy
––––––––
Two men, a pail of water, and a bicycle, were grouped together under a tree, opposite a wayside inn in Normandy. A second cycle stood propped against another tree a little distance off. It was the owner of this second machine who stooped patiently over the pail. He had taken off his jacket, his shirt-sleeves were rolled up, and his young forehead was thickened with frowns. Presently he straightened his back, shook his dripping arms and hands, and left the tyre he had been testing lying in the water.
“The rotten thing’s punctured in half-a-dozen places,” he announced disgustedly, “and it’s still about thirty-six miles to Caen. You can’t ride thirty-six miles on the rims.”
The elder man to whom the defaulting tyre belonged, replied with equanimity; “I don’t intend to
