The constable, I say, was riding without his hands; and but for this the disaster, when it occurred, might not have been so complete. I was a bit of a cyclist myself in my youth - I think I have mentioned that I once won a Choir Boys handicap at some village sports - and I can testify that when you are riding without your hands, privacy and a complete freedom from interruption are of the essence. The merest suggestion of an unexpected Scottie connecting with the ankle-bone at such a time, and you swoop into a sudden swerve. And, as everybody knows, if the hands are not firmly on the handle-bars, a sudden swerve spells a smeller.
And so it happened now. A smeller - and among the finest I have ever been privileged to witness - was what this officer of the law came. One moment he was with us, all merry and bright; the next, he was in the ditch, a sort of macedoine of arms and legs and wheels, with the terrier standing on the edge, looking down at him with that rather offensive expression of virtuous smugness which I have often noticed on the faces of Aberdeen terriers in their clashes with humanity.
(from The Code of the Woosters, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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