I rather pride myself on my packing.  Packing is one of those many things that I feel I know more about than any other person living. (It surprises me myself, sometimes, how many of these subjects there are.) I impressed the fact upon George and Harris, and told them they had better leave the whole matter entirely to me.  They fell into the suggestion with a readiness that had something uncanny about it.  George put on a pipe and spread himself over the easy-chair, and Harris cocked his legs on the table and lit a cigar.

This was hardly what I intended.  What I meant, of course, was, that I should boss the job, and that Harris and George should potter about under my directions, I pushing them aside every now and then with, “Oh, you—!” “Here, let me do it.”  “There you are, simple enough!”—­really teaching them, as you might say.  Their taking it in the way they did irritated me.  There is nothing does irritate me more than seeing other people sitting about doing nothing when I’m working.

I lived with a man once who used to make me mad that way.  He would loll on the sofa and watch me doing things by the hour together, following me round the room with his eyes, wherever I went.  He said it did him real good to look on at me, messing about.  He said it made him feel that life was not an idle dream to be gaped and yawned through, but a noble task, full of duty and stern work.  He said he often wondered now how he could have gone on before he met me, never having anybody to look at while they worked.

Now, I’m not like that.  I can’t sit still and see another man slaving and working.  I want to get up and superintend, and walk round with my hands in my pockets, and tell what to do.  It is my energetic nature.  I can’t help it.

However, I did not say anything, but started the packing.  It seemed a longer job than I had thought it was going to be, but I got the bag finished at last, and I sat on it and strapped it.

“Ain’t you going to put the boots in?” said Harris.

And I looked round and found I had forgotten them.  That’s just like Harris.  He couldn’t have said a word until I’d got the bag shut and strapped, of course.  And George laughed—­one of those irritating, senseless, chuckle-headed, crack-jawed laughs of his.  They do make me so wild.

I opened the bag and packed the boots in; and then, just as I was going to close it, a horrible idea occurred to me.  Had I packed my toothbrush?  I don’t know how it is, but I never do know whether I’ve packed my toothbrush.

My toothbrush is a thing that haunts me when I’m traveling, and makes my life a misery.  I dream that I haven’t packed it, and wake up in a cold perspiration, and get out of bed and hunt for it.  And, in the morning, I pack it before I have used it, and have to unpack again to get it, and it is always the last thing I turn out of the bag; and then I repack and forget it, and have to rush upstairs for it at the last moment and carry it to the railway station, wrapped up in my pocket handkerchief.