His face was grave and melancholy.

"I WISH that 'adn't 'appened," said Flossie, riding on with
Grubb....

And at last Bert was left almost alone, a sad, blackened
Promethean figure, cursed by the gift of fire. He had
entertained vague ideas of hiring a cart, of achieving miraculous
repairs, of still snatching some residual value from his one
chief possession. Now, in the darkening night, he perceived the
vanity of such intentions. Truth came to him bleakly, and laid
her chill conviction upon him. He took hold of the handle-bar,
stood the thing up, tried to push it forward. The tyreless
hind-wheel was jammed hopelessly, even as he feared. For a
minute or so he stood upholding his machine, a motionless
despair. Then with a great effort he thrust the ruins from
him into the ditch, kicked at it once, regarded it for a moment,
and turned his face resolutely Londonward.

He did not once look back.

"That's the end of THAT game!" said Bert. "No more
teuf-teuf-teuf for Bert Smallways for a year or two. Good-bye
'olidays!... Oh! I ought to 'ave sold the blasted thing when I
had a chance three years ago."

3

The next morning found the firm of Grubb & Smallways in a state