“Nobody sees me but milkmen,” I said, humbly.

“Well, what will the milkmen think?” said my brother.

“Mercy on us, I never thought of that,” I said.  “My gloves are all pretty tight when one has to grip one’s handle-bars as fiercely as I do.  But I’ll get large ones.  What tint do you think milkmen care the most for?”

He sniffed.

“Well, I’ll go and I’ll wear gloves,” I said, “but if I fall off, remember it will be on account of the gloves.”

“You always do fall off,” he said, with patient resignation.  “I’ve seen you fall off that wheel in more different directions than it has spokes.”

“I don’t exactly fall,” I explained, carefully.  “I feel myself going and then I get off.”

I was ready at six the next morning, and I wore gloves.

“Now, don’t ride into the holes in the street”—­one is obliged to give such instructions in Chicago—­“and don’t look at anything you see.  Don’t be afraid.  You’re all right.  Now, then!  You’re off!”

“Oh, Teddy, don’t ride so close to me,” I quavered.

“I’m forty feet away from you,” he said.

“Then double it,” I said.  “You’re choking me by your proximity.”

“Let’s cross the railroad tracks just for practice,” he said, when it was too late for me to expostulate.  “Stand up on your pedals and ride fast, and—­”

“Hold on, please do,” I shrieked.  “I’m falling off.  Get out of my way.  I seem to be turning—­”

He scorched ahead, and I headed straight for the switchman’s hut, rounded it neatly, and leaned myself and my wheel against the side of it, helpless with laughter.

A red Irish face, with a short black pipe in its mouth, thrust itself out of the tiny window just in front of me, and a voice with a rich brogue exclaimed: 

“As purty a bit of riding as iver Oi see!”

“Wasn’t it?” I cried.  “You couldn’t do it.”

“Oi wouldn’t thry!  Oi’d rather tackle a railroad train going at full spheed thin wan av thim runaway critturs.”

“Get down from there,” hissed my brother so close to my ear that it made me bite my tongue.

I obediently scrambled down.  Ted’s face was very red.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself to enter into immediate conversation with a man like that.  What do you suppose that man thought of you?”

“Oh, perhaps he saw my gloves and took me for a lady,” I pleaded.

Ted grinned and assisted me to mount.

When I successfully turned the corner by making Ted fall back out of sight, we rode away along the boulevard in silence for a while, for my conversation when I am on a wheel is generally limited to shrieks, ejaculations, and snatches of prayer.  I never talk to be amusing.

“I say,” said my brother, hesitatingly, “I wear a No. 8 glove and a No. 10 stocking.”

“I’ve always thought you had large hands and feet,” I said, ignoring the hint.