rt 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 our hotel, Heaven knows! but we did arrive there, in the
last stage of exhaustion. The driver of the carriage, whom we met next
day, informed us that a gentleman had been thrown from his horse on the
cliff-top and had broken his leg, and that, under the circumstances, he
had ventured to disobey our instructions and take the poor fellow home.
Years afterwards I discovered that nothing of the kind had happened,
but that the fiendish F. had given the driver a sovereign to play that
trick upon us. F. is a judge now, and has been lately trying election
cases. I wonder what he thinks of himself when he rebukes offenders for
the heinous crime of bribery!

Again, I always thought H. a pleasant fellow till we went together to
Cornwall. He had gone through the first ordeal of a few days nearer
home to my satisfaction, but at Penzance he broke out. He was so
dreadfully particular about his food that nothing satisfied him--not
even pilchards three times a day; and the way he went on at the waiters
is not to be described by a decent pen. The attendant at Penzance was
not, I am bound to say, a good waiter. He said, though he habitually
put his thumb in every dish, he 'hadn't quite got his hand in,' and was
not used to the business.' 'Used! you know nothing about it!' exclaimed
H., viciously. Then the poor fellow burst into tears. 'Pray be patient
with me, good gentlemen,' he murmured. 'I do my best; but until last
Wednesday as ever was I was a pork-butcher.' One cannot stand a
travelling companion who makes the waiters cry.

The worst kind of fellow-traveller is one who, to use his own
scientific phrase for his complaint, suffers from 'disorganisation of
the nervous centres.' At home his little weaknesses do not strike you.
You may not be on the spot when he flies across Piccadilly Circus,
pursued, as he fancies, by a Brompton omnibus which has not yet reached
St. James's Church, and is moving at a snail's pace; you may not have
been with him on that occasion when, in his eagerness to be in time for
the 'Flying Dutchman,' he arrives at Paddington an hour before it
starts, and is p