The mounting had been the worst part, and it had only been achieved by the help of a rockery.

He had begun by cutting into two flower-beds, and missing a birch tree by inches.

But he clung on desperately, well knowing that if he fell off it would be hard to remount, and at length he gained the avenue.

When he passed the lodge gates he was riding fairly straight, and when he turned off the Ayr highway to the side road that led to Dalquharter he was more or less master of his machine.
He crossed the Garple by an ancient hunch-backed bridge, observing even in his absorption with the handle-bars that the stream was in roaring spate.

He wrestled up the further hill with aching calf-muscles, and got to the top just before his strength gave out.