Works of Grant Allen, page 624
Encouraged by his voice, I worked steadily on, neither scorching nor relaxing, but maintaining an even pace at my natural pitch under the broiling sunshine. Heat rose in waves on my face from the road below; in the thin white dust, the accusing tracks of six wheels confronted me. Still I kept on following them, till I reached the town of Höchst — nine miles from Frankfort. Soldiers along the route were timing us at intervals with chronometers, and noting our numbers. As I rattled over the paved High Street, I called aloud to one of them. ‘How far ahead the last man?’
He shouted back, good-humouredly: ‘Four minutes, Fräulein.’
Again I lost heart. Then I mounted a slight slope, and felt how easily the Manitou moved up the gradient. From its summit I could note a long gray cloud of dust rolling steadily onward down the hill towards Hattersheim.
I coasted down, with my feet up, and a slight breeze just cooling me. Mr. Hitchcock, behind, called out, full-throated, from his seat, ‘No hurry! No flurry! Take your time! Take — your — time, miss!’
Over the bridge at Hattersheim you turn to the right abruptly, and begin to mount by the side of a pretty little stream, the Schwarzbach, which runs brawling over rocks down the Taunus from Eppstein. By this time the excitement had somewhat cooled down for the moment; I was getting reconciled to be beaten on the level, and began to realise that my chances would be best as we approached the steepest bits of the mountain road about Niederhausen. So I positively plucked up heart to look about me and enjoy the scenery. With hair flying behind — that coil had played me false — I swept through Hofheim, a pleasant little village at the mouth of a grassy valley inclosed by wooded slopes, the Schwarzbach making cool music in the glen below as I mounted beside it. Clambering larches, like huge candelabra, stood out on the ridge, silhouetted against the skyline.
‘How far ahead the last man?’ I cried to the recording soldier. He answered me back, ‘Two minutes, Fräulein.’
I was gaining on them; I was gaining! I thundered across the Schwarzbach, by half-a-dozen clamorous little iron bridges, making easy time now, and with my feet working as if they were themselves an integral part of the machinery. Up, up, up; it looked a vertical ascent; the Manitou glided well in its oil-bath at its half-way gearing. I rode for dear life. At sixteen miles, Lorsbach; at eighteen, Eppstein; the road still rising. ‘How far ahead the last man?’ ‘Just round the corner, Fräulein!’
I put on a little steam. Sure enough, round the corner I caught sight of his back. With a spurt, I passed him — a dust-covered soul, very hot and uncomfortable. He had not kept his wind; I flew past him like a whirlwind. But, oh, how sultry hot in that sweltering, close valley! A pretty little town, Eppstein, with its mediæval castle perched high on a craggy rock. I owed it some gratitude, I felt, as I left it behind, for ’twas here that I came up with the tail-end of my opponents.
HOW FAR AHEAD THE FIRST MAN?
That one victory cheered me. So far, our route had lain along the well-made but dusty high road in the steaming valley; at Nieder-Josbach, two miles on, we quitted the road abruptly, by the course marked out for us, and turned up a mountain path, only wide enough for two cycles abreast — a path that clambered towards the higher slopes of the Taunus. That was arranged on purpose — for this was no fair-weather show, but a practical trial for military bicycles, under the conditions they might meet with in actual warfare. It was rugged riding: black walls of pine rose steep on either hand; the ground was uncertain. Our path mounted sharply from the first; the steeper the better. By the time I had reached Ober-Josbach, nestling high among larch-woods, I had distanced all but two of my opponents. It was cooler now, too. As I passed the hamlet my cry altered.
‘How far ahead the first man?’.
‘Two minutes, Fräulein,’
‘A civilian?’
‘No, no; a Prussian officer.’
The Herr Lieutenant led, then. For Old England’s sake, I felt I must beat him.
The steepest slope of all lay in the next two miles. If I were going to win I must pass these two there, for my advantage lay all in the climb; if it came to coasting, the men’s mere weight scored a point in their favour. Bump, crash, jolt! I pedalled away like a machine; the Manitou sobbed; my ankles flew round so that I scarcely felt them. But the road was rough and scarred with waterways — ruts turned by rain to runnels. At half a mile, after a desperate struggle among sand and pebbles, I passed the second man; just ahead, the Prussian officer looked round and saw me. ‘Thunder-weather! you there, Engländerin?’ he cried, darting me a look of unchivalrous dislike, such as only your sentimental German can cast at a woman.
I AM HERE BEHIND YOU, HERR LIEUTENANT.
‘Yes, I am here, behind you, Herr Lieutenant,’ I answered, putting on a spurt; ‘and I hope next to be before you.’
He answered not a word, but worked his hardest. So did I. He bent forward: I sat erect on my Manitou, pulling hard at my handles. Now, my front wheel was upon him. It reached his pedal. We were abreast. He had a narrow thread of solid path, and he forced me into a runnel. Still I gained. He swerved: I think he tried to foul me. But the slope was too steep; his attempt recoiled on himself; he ran against the rock at the side and almost overbalanced. That second lost him. I waved my hand as I sailed ahead. ‘Good morning,’ I cried, gaily. ‘See you again at Limburg!’
From the top of the slope I put my feet up and flew down into Idstein. A thunder-shower burst: I was glad of the cool of it. It laid the dust. I regained the high road. From that moment, save for the risk of sideslips, ’twas easy running — just an undulating line with occasional ups and downs; but I saw no more of my pursuers till, twenty-two kilometres farther on, I rattled on the cobble-paved causeway into Limburg. I had covered the forty-six miles in quick time for a mountain climb. As I crossed the bridge over the Lahn, to my immense surprise, Mr. Hitchcock waved his arms, all excitement, to greet me. He had taken the train on from Eppstein, it seemed, and got there before me. As I dismounted at the Cathedral, which was our appointed end, and gave my badge to the soldier, he rushed up and shook my hand. ‘Fifty pounds!’ he cried. ‘Fifty pounds! How’s that for the great Anglo-Saxon race! And hooray for the Manitou!’
The second man, the civilian, rode in, wet and draggled, forty seconds later. As for the Herr Lieutenant, a disappointed man, he fell out by the way, alleging a puncture. I believe he was ashamed to admit the fact that he had been beaten in open fight by the objurgated Engländerin.
So the end of it was, I was now a woman of means, with fifty pounds of my own to my credit.
I lunched with my backer royally at the best inn in Limburg.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE AMATEUR COMMISSION AGENT
My eccentric American had assured me that if I won the great race for him I need not be ‘skeert’ lest he should fail to treat me well; and to do him justice, I must admit that he kept his word magnanimously. While we sat at lunch in the cosy hotel at Limburg he counted out and paid me in hand the fifty good gold pieces he had promised me. ‘Whether these Deutschers fork out my twenty thousand marks or not,’ he said, in his brisk way, ‘it don’t much matter. I shall get the contract, and I shall hev gotten the advertizement!’
‘Why do you start your bicycles in Germany, though?’ I asked, innocently. ‘I should have thought myself there was so much a better chance of selling them in England.’
LET THEM BOOM OR BUST ON IT.
He closed one eye, and looked abstractedly at the light through his glass of pale yellow Brauneberger with the other. ‘England? Yes, England! Well, see, miss, you hev not been raised in business. Business is business. The way to do it in Germany is — to manufacture for yourself: and I’ve got my works started right here in Frankfort. The way to do it in England — where capital’s dirt cheap — is, to sell your patent for every cent it’s worth to an English company, and let them boom or bust on it.’
‘I see,’ I said, catching at it. ‘The principle’s as clear as mud, the moment you point it out to one. An English company will pay you well for the concession, and work for a smaller return on its investment than you Americans are content to receive on your capital!’
‘That’s so! You hit it in one, miss! Which will you take, a cigar or a cocoa-nut?’
I smiled. ‘And what do you think you will call the machine in Europe?’
He gazed hard at me, and stroked his straw-coloured moustache. ‘Well, what do you think of the Lois Cayley?’
‘For Heaven’s sake, no!’ I cried, fervently. ‘Mr. Hitchcock, I implore you!’
He smiled pity for my weakness. ‘Ah, high-toned again?’ he repeated, as if it were some natural malformation under which I laboured. ‘Oh, ef you don’t like it, miss, we’ll say no more about it. I am a gentleman, I am. What’s the matter with the Excelsior?’
‘Nothing, except that it’s very bad Latin,’ I objected.
‘That may be so; but it’s very good business.’
He paused and mused, then he murmured low to himself, ‘“When through an Alpine village passed.” That’s where the idea of the Excelsior comes in; see? “It goes up Mont Blanc,” you said yourself. “Through snow and ice, A cycle with the strange device, Excelsior!”’
‘If I were you,’ I said, ‘I would stick to the name Manitou. It’s original, and it’s distinctive.’
‘Think so? Then chalk it up; the thing’s done. You may not be aware of it, miss, but you are a lady for whose opinion in such matters I hev a high regard. And you understand Europe. I do not. I admit it. Everything seems to me to be verboten in Germany; and everything else to be bad form in England.’
We walked down the steps together. ‘What a picturesque old town!’ I said, looking round me, well pleased. Its beauty appealed to me, for I had fifty pounds in pocket, and I had lunched sumptuously.
‘Old town?’ he repeated, gazing with a blank stare. ‘You call this town old, do you?’
‘Why, of course! Just look at the cathedral! Eight hundred years old, at least!’
He ran his eye down the streets, dissatisfied.
‘Well, ef this town is old,’ he said at last, with a snap of his fingers, ‘it’s precious little for its age.’ And he strode away towards the railway station.
‘What about the bicycle?’ I asked; for it lay, a silent victor, against the railing of the steps, surrounded by a crowd of inquiring Teutons.
He glanced at it carelessly. ‘Oh, the wheel?’ he said. ‘You may keep it.’
He said it so exactly in the tone in which one tells a waiter he may keep the change, that I resented the impertinence. ‘No, thank you,’ I answered. ‘I do not require it.’
He gazed at me, open-mouthed. ‘What? Put my foot in it again?’ he interposed. ‘Not high-toned enough? Eh? Now, I do regret it. No offence meant, miss, nor none need be taken. What I meant to in-sinuate was this: you hev won the big race for me. Folks will notice you and talk about you at Frankfort. Ef you ride a Manitou, that’ll make ’em talk the more. A mutual advantage. Benefits you; benefits me. You get the wheel; I get the advertizement.’
I saw that reciprocity was the lodestar of his life. ‘Very well, Mr. Hitchcock,’ I said, pocketing my pride, ‘I’ll accept the machine, and I’ll ride it.’
Then a light dawned upon me. I saw eventualities. ‘Look here,’ I went on, innocently — recollect, I was a girl just fresh from Girton— ‘I am thinking of going on very soon to Switzerland. Now, why shouldn’t I do this — try to sell your machines, or, rather, take orders for them, from anybody that admires them? A mutual advantage. Benefits you; benefits me. You sell your wheels; I get — —’
He stared at me. ‘The commission?’
‘I don’t know what commission means,’ I answered, somewhat at sea as to the name; ‘but I thought it might be worth your while, till the Manitou becomes better known, to pay me, say, ten per cent on all orders I brought you.’
His face was one broad smile. ‘I do admire at you, miss,’ he cried, standing still to inspect me. ‘You may not know the meaning of the word commission; but durned ef you haven’t got a hang of the thing itself that would do honour to a Wall Street operator, anyway.’
‘Then that’s business?’ I asked, eagerly; for I beheld vistas.
‘Business?’ he repeated. ‘Yes, that’s jest about the size of it — business. Advertizement, miss, may be the soul of commerce, but Commission’s its body. You go in and win. Ten per cent on every order you send me!’
He insisted on taking my ticket back to Frankfort. ‘My affair, miss; my affair!’ There was no gainsaying him. He was immensely elated. ‘The biggest thing in cycles since Dunlop tyres,’ he repeated. ‘And to-morrow, they’ll give me advertizements gratis in every newspaper!’
Next morning, he came round to call on me at the Abode of Unclaimed Domestic Angels. He was explicit and generous. ‘Look here, miss,’ he began; ‘I didn’t do fair by you when you interviewed me about your agency last evening. I took advantage, at the time, of your youth and inexperience. You suggested 10 per cent as the amount of your commission on sales you might effect; and I jumped at it. That was conduct unworthy of a gentleman. Now, I will not deceive you. The ordinary commission on transactions in wheels is 25 per cent. I am going to sell the Manitou retail at twenty English pounds apiece. You shall hev your 25 per cent on all orders.’
‘Five pounds for every machine I sell?’ I exclaimed, overjoyed.
He nodded. ‘That’s so.’
I was simply amazed at this magnificent prospect. ‘The cycle trade must be honeycombed with middlemen’s profits!’ I cried; for I had my misgivings.
‘That’s so,’ he replied again. ‘Then jest you take and be a middlewoman.’
‘But, as a consistent socialist — —’
‘It is your duty to fleece the capitalist and the consumer. A mutual benefit — triangular this time. I get the order, the public gets the machine, and you get the commission. I am richer, you are richer, and the public is mounted on much the best wheel ever yet invented.’
‘That sounds plausible,’ I admitted. ‘I shall try it on in Switzerland. I shall run up steep hills whenever I see any likely customers looking on; then I shall stop and ask them the time, as if quite accidentally.’
He rubbed his hands. ‘You take to business like a young duck to the water,’ he exclaimed, admiringly. ‘That’s the way to rake ’em in! You go up and say to them, “Why not investigate? We defy competition. Leave the drudgery of walking uphill beside your cycle! Progress is the order of the day. Use modern methods! This is the age of the telegraph, the telephone, and the typewriter. You kin no longer afford to go on with an antiquated, ante-diluvian, armour-plated wheel. Invest in a Hill-Climber, the last and lightest product of evvolootion. Is it common-sense to buy an old-style, unautomatic, single-geared, inconvertible ten-ton machine, when for the same money or less you can purchase the self-acting Manitou, a priceless gem, as light as a feather, with all the most recent additions and improvements? Be reasonable! Get the best!” That’s the style to fetch ’em!’
I laughed, in spite of myself. ‘Oh, Mr. Hitchcock,’ I burst out, ‘that’s not my style at all. I shall say, simply “This is a lovely new bicycle. You can see for yourself how it climbs hills. Try it, if you wish. It skims like a swallow. And I get what they call five pounds commission on every one I can sell of them!” I think that way of dealing is much more likely to bring you in orders.’
His admiration was undisguised. ‘Well, I do call you a woman of business, miss,’ he cried. ‘You see it at a glance. That’s so. That’s the right kind of thing to rope in the Europeans. Some originality about you. You take ’em on their own ground. You’ve got the draw on them, you hev. I like your system. You’ll jest haul in the dollars!’
‘I hope so,’ I said, fervently; for I had evolved in my own mind, oh, such a lovely scheme for Elsie Petheridge’s holidays!
He gazed at me once more. ‘Ef only I could get hold of a woman of business like you to soar through life with me,’ he murmured.
HIS OPEN ADMIRATION WAS GETTING QUITE EMBARRASSING.
I grew interested in my shoes. His open admiration was getting quite embarrassing.
He paused a minute. Then he went on: ‘Well, what do you say to it?’
‘To what?’ I asked, amazed.
‘To my proposition — my offer.’
‘I — I don’t understand,’ I stammered out bewildered. ‘The 25 per cent, you mean?’
‘No, the de-votion of a lifetime,’ he answered, looking sideways at me. ‘Miss Cayley, when a business man advances a proposition, commercial or otherwise, he advances it because he means it. He asks a prompt reply. Your time is valuable. So is mine. Are you prepared to consider it?’
‘Mr. Hitchcock,’ I said, drawing back, ‘I think you misunderstand. I think you do not realise — —’
‘All right, miss,’ he answered, promptly, though with a disappointed air. ‘Ef it kin not be managed, it kin not be managed. I understand your European ex-clusiveness. I know your prejudices. But this little episode need not antagonise with the normal course of ordinary business. I respect you, Miss Cayley. You are a lady of intelligence, of initiative, and of high-toned culture. I will wish you good day for the present, without further words; and I shall be happy at any time to receive your orders on the usual commission.’
He backed out and was gone. He was so honestly blunt that I really quite liked him.
Next day, I bade a tearless farewell to the Blighted Fraus. When I told those eight phlegmatic souls I was going, they all said ‘So!’ much as they had said ‘So!’ to every previous remark I had been moved to make to them. ‘So’ is capital garnishing: but viewed as a staple of conversation, I find it a trifle vapid, not to say monotonous.
