As the wind trundled us over the final undulations, my companion hazarded an inquiry as to whether there was any likelihood of other camping company apart from that of our own particular club, and my mount swerved wildly. I recovered physical and mental balance, and bade him be prepared to share his camp-site with a few score of tents, for we were riding to the Bolton-by-Bowland meet, a function well liked by the Bedouins of the bicycle, and usually productive of record gatherings of the tribe. We glided around a corner, and I pointed downward. Half a mile away, framed…