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Didn’t I tell yer I can’t move a wheel? I’m done for!’
    ‘I’ll give it a shot,’ said the Triumph.
    ‘But you need two for that sort of lark!’ said the Matchless G3L. ‘You can’t do it on yer own!’
    ‘Perhaps I can help?’ said a voice.
    The two old motorbikes turned to find that a smart, silver bicycle had emerged from behind the rubbish skip that filled up most of the alley.
    ‘Shove off, push-bike!’ growled the old ex-army Matchless.
    ‘No wait a minute!’ said the Triumph Hurricane, and then turning to the bicycle, he asked, ‘What sort of machine are you?’
    ‘I’m a Raleigh Metro GLX Gents, with an Airlite aluminium sports city frame and semi-slick tyres,’ said the bicycle.
    ‘But you’re just a pedal-bike,’ sneered the Matchless.
    ‘Yes! How could you be any use to us ?’ asked the Triumph.
    ‘Well, for a start I’m a lot younger than you two old farts,’ said the Metro GLX Gents.
    ‘Now look ’ere, you . . . you . . . fairy cycle . . .’ began the Matchless.
    ‘I am not a fairy cycle!’ exclaimed the bicycle. ‘I’m a top-of-the-range Metro Gents, with 24-speed Shimano gears with fingertip controls!’
    ‘Yes, yes . . .’ said the Triumph Hurricane, who had zero interest in push-bikes. ‘We can all see you’re a very fine bike. Maybe we could use you.’
    ‘You gone soft in the head or somefink?’ snapped the ex-army Matchless. ‘He ain’t even a mountain bike . . . and he’s still wet behind the handlebars!’
    ‘Excuse my friend,’ the Triumph smiled at the bicycle. ‘He’s an old army bike, but his bark’s worse than his bite.’
    ‘It’s all right,’ said the bicycle. ‘I expect you motorbikes to be a bit on the rough side . . . But that doesn’t matter to me. I’ve run away, you see.’
    ‘Some little kiddy must be crying his eyes out over you,’ sneered the ex-army Matchless.
    ‘Excuse me!’ replied the bicycle indignantly. ‘I am a full adult Gents model!’
    ‘Pardon me, I’m sure,’ scoffed the Matchless.
    ‘Now break it up, you two!’ said the Triumph. Then it turned to the Raleigh GLX and asked, ‘Now, you’re sure you’re not stolen? We don’t want to go into business with some bike what the police are looking for!’
    ‘Oh no,’ said the bicycle. ‘I fell off the back of a lorry. You can see the dent in my mudguard.’ And he turned round and showed his rear mudguard, which did indeed have a dent in it. ‘So tell me about the “Big One”.’
    ‘ ’Ere! ’E’s bin listening in to our conversation!’ exclaimed the Matchless. ‘I’ll soon sort out his saddle-bag for ’im!’ And he made a lunge at the bicycle, but the Triumph Hurricane stopped him.
    ‘Hang on, Sarge!’ he said. ‘This ’ere bike is going to join our gang!’
    ‘You must be joking!’ cried the Matchless.
    ‘No. From now on we’re going to be buddies!’ And the Triumph put his handlebars around the bicycle to show he meant it.
    Then the Triumph Hurricane told the bicycle what he and the army Matchless had been planning. ‘You see?’ it
    concluded. ‘And if you do your bit OK we’ll even give you a small share in the loot.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’ retorted the Raleigh GLX. ‘We split it fifty-fifty or I’m not interested.’
    ‘Fifty-fifty!’ exclaimed the two motorbikes together. ‘There are three of us!’
    ‘Yes, but one of “us” isn’t coming on the job!’ said the bicycle glaring at the Matchless. ‘One of “us” is so useless and clapped out that it isn’t capable of doing an honest day’s work!’
    ‘Now listen ’ere, you jumped-up pedal-pusher!’ exploded the ex-army motorbike.
    ‘One of “us” is just a free-loading heap of rusty metal that’s no good even for the scrap heap!’
    ‘I’ll teach you . . . you . . . snotty-faced, unisex bell-ringer!’
    ‘Oh, give it a rest, you two!’ said the Triumph.
    ‘I’m going to be doing half the work so it’s only fair that I get half