“For all of it that is good, my lad,” said the professor merrily, “but don’t uphold the bad.”
“Bad, sir! There’s precious little that’s bad in London. If you want to go a few hundred miles there, you can go at any time and get good accommodation. Not be forced to ride in a market-boat with hard seats. Bless me, they are making my back bad again.”
“Oh, but, Mr Burne, look, look, the place here is lovely!”
“Oh, yes, lovely enough, but, as the fellow said, it isn’t fit to live in long; it’s dangerous to be safe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Earthquakes, sir. If you take a house in London, you know where you are. If you take one here, as the fellow said, where are you? To-day all right, to-morrow shaken down by an earthquake shock, or swallowed up.”
“There are risks everywhere,” said the professor, who seemed to be gradually throwing off his dreamy manner, and growing brighter and more active, just as if he had been suffering from a disease of the mind as Lawrence had of the body.
“Risks? Humph! yes, some; but by the time we’ve finished our trip, you’ll all be ready to say, There’s no place like home.”
“Granted,” said the professor.
“Why, you’re not tired of the journey already, Mr Burne?”