"Ah, but my tooth-brush has lost seven bristles. That makes a difference."
"What I say is, let every man carry his own bag. This is a rotten business, John. I don't wish to be anything but polite, but for a silly ass commend me to the owner of that brown thing."
John took no notice and went on packing.
"I shall buy a collar in the town," he said.
"Better let me do it for you. You would only go getting an invitation to a garden-party from the haberdasher. And that would mean another eight miles with a portmanteau."
"There we are," said John, as he closed the bag, "quite small and light. Now, who'll take the first hour?"
"We'd better toss, if you're quite sure you won't carry it all the way. Tails. Just my luck."
John looked out of the window and then at his watch.
"They say two to three is the hottest hour of the day," he said. "It will be cooler later on. I shall put you in."
I led the way up the cliffs with that wretched bag. I insisted upon that condition anyhow—that the man with the bag should lead the way. I wasn't going to have John dashing off at six miles an hour, and leaving himself only two miles at the end.