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One can always tell

If the hitch-hikers are American I generally stop for them. One can always tell. They try harder for their lifts, holding up well-lettered destination signs and offering ingratiating smiles. They are in the lift-getting business, and they do the job properly. When they are on board they generally work for their keep, too. They tell me all about themselves, they learn all about me, they give me a brief lecture upon the social customs of my own country, or kindly correct me when I appear to be going the wrong way. They are usually willing to oblige, too. “Are you going to Scotland?” one young man asked me when I stopped for him just outside London. “No, I’m going to Wales.” “OK, make it Wales”—and I drove him all the way to Bala, and left him smoothly chatting up the farmer’s wife at the bed-and-breakfast place.