A large map of London would be needed to display the wild and zigzag
course of one day's journey undertaken by an uncle and his nephew;
or, to speak more truly, of a nephew and his uncle. For the nephew,
a schoolboy on a holiday, was in theory the god in the car, or in
the cab, tram, tube, and so on, while his uncle was at most a priest
dancing before him and offering sacrifices. To put it more soberly,
the schoolboy had something of the stolid air of a young duke doing
the grand tour, while his elderly relative was reduced to the
position of a courier, who nevertheless had to pay for everything
like a patron. The schoolboy was officially known as Summers Minor,
and in a more social manner as Stinks, the only public tribute to
his career as an amateur photographer and electrician. The uncle was
the Rev. Thomas Twyford, a lean and lively old gentleman with a red,
eager face and white hair. He was in the ordinary way a country
clergyman, but he was one of those who achieve the paradox of being
famous in an obscure way, because they are famous in an obscure
world. In a small circle of ecclesiastical archaeologists, who were
the only people who could even understand one another's discoveries,
he occupied a recognized and respectable place. And a critic might
have found even in that day's journey at least as much of the
uncle's hobby as of the nephew's holiday.

His original purpose had been wholly paternal and festive. But,
like many other intelligent people, he was not above the weakness of
playing with a toy to amuse himself, on the theory that it would
amuse a child. His toys were crowns and miters and croziers and
swords of state; and he had lingered over them, telling himself that
the boy ought to see all the sights of London. And at the end of the
day, after a tremendous tea, he rather gave the game away by winding
up with a visit in which hardly any human boy could be conceived as