Their case, of course, is an extreme one; but that of C. and D. is almost as bad.  They are men of prudence, and persuade E. to go with them, as a makeweight.  ‘If we should ever disagree,’ they say, ’as to what is to be done—­which, however, is to the last degree improbable—­the majority of votes shall carry it’—­an arrangement which only delays the inevitable event—­

    ’Three little nigger boys went the world to view,
    The third was left in Calais, and then there were two.’

They find the makeweight intolerable before they have crossed the Channel, and, having agreed to cut their cable from him, are from that moment never in the same mind about anything else.  It is a modern version of the three brigands who stole the Communion plate.  C. and D. push E. over the precipice, and C. stabs D. at a supper for which D. has purveyed poisoned wine.

The only way to secure a really eligible travelling companion is to try him first in short swallow-flights, or rather pigeon-flights, from home.  Take your bird with you for a few days’ outing near home; then, if he proves pleasant, for a week’s tour in Cornwall; then for ten days in Scotland, where, if you meet with the usual weather, and he still keeps his temper and politeness, you may trust yourself to him anywhere.  Out of twenty failures there will, perhaps, be one success.  In this manner I have discovered in time, in my dearest and nearest friends, the most undreamt of vices.  One man, F., hitherto much respected as a Chancery barrister, has, as it has turned out, been intended by nature for a professional pedestrian.  His true calling is to walk ‘laps’ round the Agricultural Hall or at Lillie Bridge, with nothing on to speak of save a handkerchief round his forehead.  ’Let us walk’ is his one cry as soon as he becomes a travelling companion.  And he is not content to do this when he arrives at any place of interest, but insists upon walking there—­perhaps along a dusty road, or over turnip-fields.  I like walking myself in moderation—­say a mile out and a mile in; but not, certainly not, twenty miles at a stretch, and at a speed which precludes conversation.  This class of travelling companion is very dangerous.  If he does not get his walking he becomes malignant.  My barrister, at least, being denied the opportunity of drawing out marriage-settlements, conveying land, or otherwise plundering the community, took to practical jokes.  Having a suspicion of his pedestrian powers, from the extreme length of his legs, I took G. with us, a man whom I could trust in that respect, and who fancied he had heart complaint.  G. and I took our exercise alone together in a fly.  One day we took a long drive—­four miles or more—­to a well-known bay.  The vehicle could not get down to the sea, so we descended on foot, leaving it at the top of the cliff, with the strictest orders to the man not to stir till we came back.  When we returned the fly was gone.  How we reached