An age of rapid transit, this! People go by steam and by electricity. Horses are getting to be slow coaches. Observe how people chafe when there is a delay of five minutes—yes, or of one minute—on a horse-car. You must certainly suppose the world would cease to turn on its axis, if they fail to reach their destination within a few seconds. Naturally, therefore, the world takes to bicycles—boys in particular. My oldest has had the fever on him for a few years; but not till this spring did he attain his ambition, and bestride a two-wheeler of his own. He wanted a new one, if he could have it; or a second-hand one, if that must be his lot. So he looked about, in response to advertisements, only to find that the best place to go, whether for new steeds or old, is Pope's headquarters.
The Dad has to go along too. Spacious rooms! Machines a'plenty. A bright salesman (a Cambridge boy) downstairs; and, if you need to inquire upstairs, you find courteous and reasonable gentlemen ready to talk with you. All the patents are there, and the various appendages to the machines. There is a Tricycle to make your mouth water and your blood tingle, at the thought of a long trundle on it, with a pleasant pair of bright eyes at your side to cheer the way.
Pleasant folks to deal with, the Popes. You can easily remember the place, when you set it down in your mind as near the Park Theatre, on Washington Street, over the office of The Pilot.
