I said: "It gave a brilliant light in the King's Road, Brighton, and
frightened a horse. The moment we got into the dark beyond Kemp Town it
went out, and you were summoned for riding without a light. You may
remember that on sunny afternoons you used to ride about with that lamp
shining for all it was worth. When lighting-up time came it was
naturally tired, and wanted a rest."

"It was a bit irritating, that lamp," he murmured; "I remember it."

I said: "It irritated me; it must have been worse for you. Then there
are saddles," I went on--I wished to get this lesson home to him. "Can
you think of any saddle ever advertised that you have _not_ tried?"

He said: "It has been an idea of mine that the right saddle is to be
found."

I said: "You give up that idea; this is an imperfect world of joy and
sorrow mingled. There may be a better land where bicycle saddles are
made out of rainbow, stuffed with cloud; in this world the simplest thing
is to get used to something hard. There was that saddle you bought in
Birmingham; it was divided in the middle, and looked like a pair of
kidneys."

He said: "You mean that one constructed on anatomical principles."

"Very likely," I replied. "The box you bought it in had a picture on the
cover, representing a sitting skeleton--or rather that part of a skeleton
which does sit."

He said: "It was quite correct; it showed you the true position of the--"