Everybody′s would be better than nobody′s! If I fell into that state of mind about a girl, do you think I′d lay me doon and dee? No, sir,′ proceeded Goodchild, with a disparaging assumption of the Scottish accent, ′I′d get me oop and peetch into somebody. Wouldn′t you?′
′I wouldn′t have anything to do with her,′ yawned Thomas Idle. ′Why should I take the trouble?′
′It′s no trouble, Tom, to fall in love,′ said Goodchild, shaking his head.
′It′s trouble enough to fall out of it, once you′re in it,′ retorted Tom. ′So I keep out of it altogether. It would be better for you, if you did the same.′
Mr. Goodchild, who is always in love with somebody, and not unfrequently with several objects at once, made no reply. He heaved a sigh of the kind which is termed by the lower orders ′a bellowser,′ and then, heaving Mr. Idle on his feet (who was not half so heavy as the sigh), urged him northward.
These two had sent their personal baggage on by train: only retaining each a knapsack. Idle now applied himself to constantly regretting the train, to tracking it through the intricacies of Bradshaw′s Guide, and finding out where it is now—and where now— and where now—and to asking what was the use of walking, when you could ride at such a pace as that. Was it to see the country? If that was the object, look at it out of the carriage windows. There was a great deal more of it to be seen there than here. Besides, who wanted to see the country? Nobody. And again, whoever did walk? Nobody. Fellows set off to walk, but they never did it. They came back and said they did, but they didn′t. Then why should he walk? He wouldn′t walk. He swore it by this milestone!
It was the fifth from London, so far had they penetrated into the North. Submitting to the powerful chain of argument, Goodchild proposed a return to the Metropolis, and a falling back upon Euston Square Terminus. Thomas assented with alacrity, and so they walked down into the North by the next morning′s express, and carried their knapsacks in the luggage-van.
It was like all other expresses, as every express is and must be. It bore through the harvest country a smell like a large washing- day, and a sharp issue of steam as from a huge brazen tea-urn. The greatest power in nature and art combined, it yet glided over dangerous heights in the sight of people looking up from fields and roads, as smoothly and unreally as a light miniature plaything. Now, the engine shrieked in hysterics of such intensity, that it seemed desirable that the men who had her in charge should hold her feet, slap her hands, and bring her to; now, burrowed into tunnels with a stubborn and undemonstrative energy so confusing that the train seemed to be flying back into leagues of darkness. Here, were station after station, swallowed up by the express without stopping; here, stations where it fired itself in like a volley of cannon-balls, swooped away four country-people with nosegays, and three men of business with portmanteaus, and fired itself off again, bang, bang, bang! At long intervals were uncomfortable refreshment-rooms, made more uncomfortable by the scorn of Beauty towards Beast, the public (but to whom she never relented, as Beauty did in the story, towards the other Beast), and where sensitive stomachs were fed, with a contemptuous sharpness occasioning indigestion.
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