The captain of the vessel, into whose hands Mr. C——­ assigned me at Newhaven, protests on my behalf, and I likewise enter a gentle demurrer; but the custom-house officer declares that a duty will have to be forthcoming, saying that the amount will be returned again when I pass over the German frontier.  The captain finally advises the payment of the duty and the acceptance of a receipt for the amount, and takes his leave.  Not feeling quite satisfied as yet about paying the duty, I take a short stroll about Dieppe, leaving my wheel at tho custom-house and when I shortly return, prepared to pay the assessment, whatever it may be, the officer who, but thirty minutes since, declared emphatically in favor of a duty, now answers, with all the politeness imaginable:  “Monsieur is at liberty to take the velocipede and go whithersoever he will.”  It is a fairly prompt initiation into the impulsiveness of the French character.  They don’t accept bicycles as baggage, though, on the Channel steamers, and six shillings freight, over and above passage-money, has to be yielded up.

Although upon a foreign shore, I am not yet, it seems, to be left entirely alone to the tender mercies of my own lamentable inability to speak French.  Fortunately there lives at Dieppe a gentleman named Mr. Parkinson, who, besides being an Englishman to the backbone, is quite an enthusiastic wheelman, and, among other things, considers it his solemn duty to take charge of visiting ’cyclers from England and America and see them safely launched along the magnificent roadways of Normandy, headed fairly toward their destination.  Faed has thoughtfully notified Mr. Parkinson of my approach, and he is watching for my coming — as tenderly as though I were a returning prodigal and he charged with my welcoming home.  Close under the frowning battlements of Dieppe Castle — a once wellnigh impregnable fortress that was some time in possession of the English — romantically nestles Mr. Parldnson’s studio, and that genial gentleman promptly proposes accompanying me some distance into the country.  On our way through Dieppe I notice blue-bloused peasants guiding small flocks of goats through the streets, calling them along with a peculiar, tuneful instrument that sounds somewhat similar to a bagpipe.  I learn that they are Normandy peasants, who keep their flocks around town all summer, goat’s milk being considered beneficial for infants and invalids.  They lead the goats from house to house, and milk whatever quantity their customers want at their own door — a custom that we can readily understand will never become widely popular among AngloSaxon milkmen, since it leaves no possible chance for pump-handle combinations and corresponding profits.  The morning is glorious with sunshine and the carols of feathered songsters as together we speed away down the beautiful Arques Valley, over roads that are simply perfect for wheeling; and, upon arriving at the picturesque ruins of the