Then he had gone on tramping along the high road.

What was that about bacon and eggs?
The horrible smell offended his nostrils.

It must have been a wayside inn; and a woman twenty feet high with a face like a cauliflower--or was it spinach ?--or Brussels sprouts ?--silly not to remember--one of the three, certainly--desired to murder him with a thousand eggs bubbling up against rank reefs of bacon.

He had escaped from her somehow, and he had been very lucky.

His star had saved him.
It had also saved him from a devil on a red-hot bicycle.