Seymour Merriman was tired; tired of the jolting saddle of his motor bicycle,of the cramped position of his arms, of the chug of the engine, and most ofall, of the dreary, barren country through which he was riding. Early thatmorning he had left Pau, and with the exception of an hour and a half atBayonne, where he had lunched and paid a short business call, he had been at itever since. It was now after five o’clock, and the last post he hadnoticed showed him he was still twenty-six kilometers from Bordeaux, where heintended to spend the night.
“This confounded road has no end,” he thought. “I really muststretch my legs a bit.”
A short distance in front of him a hump in the white ribbon of the road withparapet walls narrowing in at each side indicated a bridge. He cut off hisengine and, allowing the machine to coast, brought it to a stand at the summit.Then dismounting, he slid it back on its bracket; stretched himselfluxuriously, and looked around.
In both directions, in front of him and behind, the road stretched, level andmonotonous as far as the eye could reach, as he had seen it stretch