Meanwhile, at an other encampment in this veritable metropolis of dusty travelers, a damsel in distress pushes her mechanically incapacitated Safety Velocipede along the trail when she is hailed by an unsavory-looking blacksmith who appears to have gone frightfully native -- although he is drinking from a reasonably aristocratic pewter goblet.
“I say…” exclaims the rogue. “Would Her Ladyship wish to have her Velocipede mended?”
“Why, yes, that would be most welcome. But I fear such newfangled skills may be too dear for my modest purse.”
“Nonsense!” assures her the smith. “Coin is no good in these parts. I shall be honored to mend your velocipede’s tyre for the sport of it. Will MyLady take a spot of wine while she waits?”
A flurry of activity ensues, as the smith first pours wine from a large ice box which emits a low humming sound, then attacks the balky velocipede with several metallic instruments. Soon, the damsel is refreshed and the cycling apparatus restored to service.
“Off you go then, my lass!”
“Oh, my hero!” A smooching sound is heard.
…at Lake Lahontan, where all the….
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