We put in that night at Aldborough, and the next day worked up to Yarmouth, where, as my friends had to leave, I decided to abandon the yacht. We sold the stores by auction on Yarmouth sands early in the morning. I made a loss, but had the satisfaction of "doing" Captain Goyles. I left the _Rogue_ in charge of a local mariner, who, for a couple of sovereigns, undertook to see to its return to Harwich; and we came back to London by train. There may be yachts other than the _Rogue_, and skippers other than Mr. Goyles, but that experience has prejudiced me against both. George also thought a yacht would be a good deal of responsibility, so we dismissed the idea. "What about the river?" suggested Harris. "We have had some pleasant times on that." George pulled in silence at his cigar, and I cracked another nut. "The river is not what it used to be," said I; "I don't know what, but there's a something--a dampness--about the river air that always starts my lumbago." "It's the same with me," said George. "I don't know how it is, but I never can sleep now in the neighbourhood of the river. I spent a week at Joe's place in the spring, and every night I woke up at seven o'clock and never got a wink afterwards." "I merely suggested it," observed Harris. "Personally, I don't think it good for me, either; it touches my gout." "What suits me best," I said, "is mountain air. What say you to a walking tour in Scotland?" "It's always wet in Scotland," said George. "I was three weeks in Scotland the year before last, and was never dry once all the time--not in that sense." "It's fine enough in Switzerland," said Harris. "They would never stand our going to Switzerland by ourselves," I objected. "You know what happened last time. It must be some place where no delicately nurtured woman or child could possibly live; a country of bad hotels and comfortless travelling; where we shall have to rough it, to work hard, to starve perhaps--" "Easy!" interrupted George, "easy, there! Don't forget I'm coming with you." "I have it!" exclaimed Harris; "a bicycle tour!" George looked doubtful. "There's a lot of uphill about a bicycle tour," said he, "and the wind is against you." "So there is downhill, and the wind behind you," said Harris. "I've never noticed it," said George. "You won't think of anything better than a bicycle tour," persisted Harris. I was inclined to agree with him. "And I'll tell you where," continued he; "through the Black Forest." "Why, that's _all_ uphill," said George. "Not all," retorted Harris; "say two-thirds. And there's one thing you've forgotten." He looked round cautiously, and sunk his voice to a whisper. "There are little railways going up those hills, little cogwheel things that--" The door opened, and Mrs. Harris appeared. She said that Ethelbertha was putting on her bonnet, and that Muriel, after waiting, had given "The Mad Hatter's Tea Party" without us.