THE WHEELS OF CHANCE
nothing. I know nothing. I can't do anything—sketch a bit. Why wasn't I made an artist?
"Beastly cheap, after all, this suit does look, in the sunshine.
"No good, Hoopdriver. Anyhow, you don't tell yourself any lies about it. Lovers ain't your game,—anyway. But there's other things yet. You can help the young lady, and you will—I suppose she'll be going home— And that business of the bicycle's to see to, too, my man. Forward, Hoopdriver! If you ain't a beauty, that's no reason why you should stop and be copped, is it?"
And having got back in this way to a gloomy kind of self-satisfaction, he had another attempt at his hair before leaving his room and hurrying on breakfast for an early departure. While breakfast was preparing he wandered out into South Street and refurnished himself with the elements of luggage again. "No expense to be spared," he murmured, disgorging the half-sovereign.
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