He turns out of the High Street at the corner, dismounts with a sigh, and pushes his machine through the gates of the Antrobus stable yard, as the apprentice with the high collar holds them open. There are words of greeting. "South Coast," you hear; and "splendid weather—splendid." He sighs. "Yes—swapped him off for a couple of sovs. It's a juiced good machine."

  The gate closes upon him with a slam, and he vanishes from our ken.

  * * *

 

 

  H. G. Wells, The Wheels of Chance

 

 

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