with small, immaculately white packages. A little, neatly painted sign was fastened onto the tray. It bore the legend, lettered in dainty script: Smythe's Sweets Shoppe.
The rider was in a playful mood. Without slowing the breakneck speed at which he was traveling, he now proceeded to swoop from side to side with the bicycle. He breezed along with both hands lifted from the handlebars. He gripped the bars again, swung one leg over the saddle and rode with both feet on the same pedal. Then, performing what was evidently his masterpiece, he ducked his head under the horizontal main rod of the bicycle, followed his head with his body, emerged on the other side of the machine and triumphantly settled into the saddle into a sensible position at last. All without even breaking his neck!
For a miracle there were no pedestrians on that particular stretch of street. The youth was not showing off. He was indulging in his mad feats purely out of high exuberance of spirits. Vaudeville headliners with four-figure salaries could not do as well.
Now the wild rider leaned earnestly over his handle bars and summoned up even greater speed into his legs. He leaned in the approved racing style as he scorched around a corner. The street he entered was lively with trucks, taxis and pleasure cars. He darted in and out among them. But he had to slow down as the rear end of a huge sprinkling cart loomed in his path. He tried to pass this obstacle, but there was not room between it and
