H

business, evidently unaware of Bill's mighty contest with gukguk. Hindhead, also, returned no doubt to dull suburban use, and meat and kippers were peddled as usual up to Blackdown. At breakfast the landlord inquired of Bill his health.

"Prime," said Bill.

The landlord rubbed his stomach. "All right here?” he asked.

"Child's milk," said Bill, "harmless to a babe." "You'll be sure to sign our book," said the landlord.

"With pleasure," answered Bill.

And so the record stands, and the inn is famous. We sauntered to the railway station, as this was the day when George was to come from London. From a posted sheet of trains we learned that expresses arrived every hour or so. One was presently coming in, so we bought platform tickets to be close at hand. At these crowded stations one may look upon a train darkly as through a glass without expense, but if he would mix with the passengers and hotel runners on the platform he must procure a ticket with a penny in the slot.

"He doesn't seem to be aboard," said Beezer, when the train had pulled away and the platform cleared. "Quite true, Rollo," I replied. "I commend you on the clearness of your observation. Pink marshmallows are doubtless excellent brain food."

And now it was arranged that Beezer and I were to walk to Guildford and that Bill was to meet all trains for George and come on in a public bus. If they overtook us they were to alight for such part of the twelve miles as might be left. It was hard on noon when we fitted on our rucksacks.

We lingered a bit at Greys Wood and I pointed out to Beezer the inn and the house of the Widow Winter where I had once put up on a cycling trip. Here were the steps where I had sat with the friendly chemist to boast of the versatility of American drug stores. Here was the path to the hilltop which I had climbed with the widow's wagging dog. It seemed a homelike place, as villages must if one has passed the night and returns with seasoned recollection.

We ate at the Brook Inn two miles beyond. It was a bank holiday and a crowd of hungry folk filled the dining room, with a rush of platters in the corridor. We ate in the sitting room, and this was the room where I had had my supper on this same cycling trip. Prosperity had swept away the older furniture and it was stuffed with chairs of shining leather. Grandfather's crayon portrait which had stood upon an easel was now removed. I asked the waitress if she recalled four dusty travelers who came once at twilight and found all rooms full. One was a lad and he went by the name of Gingerale. Perhaps she remembered his attack on the bacon. But she met me with a vacant stare.

Our lunch was bread and milk, with a slab of beef for Beezer.

"Why," I asked, "are English novels so full of food?" Beezer did not know.

"The persons of the older novelists are always eating. In Dickens alone there are a thousand dinners served. If a chapter lags a roast is fetched in. And why is this?"

He had no answer.

"How can such an output of words," I continued, "arise from the monotony of beef and bacon, mutton, a sole, a boiled potato, a plate of string beans and a raspberry tart? French stories do not always cram themselves with cooking, Beezer, although their cooking delights the palate by its variety. It is at their kitchens that a sniff might justly start a sonnet."

"It's not bad beef," said Beezer, descending on his

COW.

"It is a noble animal," I answered, "but much abused."

Presently Beezer pushed back his plate.

"You are done," I said. "And now a pink marshmallow, and we'll be off."

"Have you a match?" he asked.

"Here is the box," I replied. "A tidbit of roast thumb, and then we'll start."

"Cue," said Beezer.

As we walked on through the afternoon Beezer and I played a game, with motors as its counts. A car that advanced upon us was a score for him, and to me fell the motors that passed us from the rear. A bicycle was half a point. It was thus that we debauched our minds. At Godalming a cycling club went by and he scored his triumphant goal. I did remark to him, however, that somewhere hereabouts stood the Charterhouse School, that once it had occupied a building in London hard by Smithfield and that Thackeray had been a student there.

And so we walked along the river Wey until the hill at Guildford popped in sight. We sat for a ginger beer at the entrance of the town, then sought the Lion Hotel. At dinner time Bill and George arrived by bus.

George, of course, was a reinforcement to the discussions of music. Beezer at once fastened on him, and pumped him dry with questions. Was Sir Henry Wood the equal of our own Sokoloff who has played in London? And how often was the Ring performed? George, moreover is convulsed by Bill.

"You'll kill me, Bill!" he cries, "you and your stout."

"Food for babes," says Bill.

Nor have I met men of pleasanter temper than these three for a walking trip.

Bill's itinerant drug store (see catalogue made at Brighton!) is George's constant jest.

"Well," he says at breakfast, "have you had your morning Turpo?"

"Never travel without it."

"What's it for," asks George, "the gizzard or the face?"

"The feet," says Bill.

"And the Kora Konia? I hope that it has not been neglected."

"Most certainly not," says Bill.

"Houbigant pour le teint?"

"Every night," says Bill.

"You'll be the death of me,” George exclaims. “Did ever a man go on a walking trip so loaded down?"

"Lift the box," says Bill. "Not an ounce above two pounds. Handiest little thing in the world. Been to Europe with me eleven times."

"It will go in your coffin yet. What's the cork for?" "A museum specimen," says Bill. "I come from a dry land."

"What do you do with the atomizer?"

"It's Listerine," says Bill. "It keeps germs out of my throat. Open your mouth!"

George obeys.

"Now, Beezer!"

Beezer obeys. "Yours!"