I do not mind confessing (over my pen name) that I am not good on
rocks. My companion on the rope kept addressing me at critical moments by
the name of Saunders. My name, I rejoice to say, is not Saunders, and he
knew it was not Saunders, but he had to call me something, and in the
excitement of the moment could think of nothing but Saunders. Whenever I
was slow in finding a handhold or foothold, there would come a stentorian
instruction to Saunders to feel to the right or the left, or higher up or
lower down. And I remember that I found it a great comfort to know that it
was not I who was so slow, but that fellow Saunders. I seemed to see him as
a laborious, futile person who would have been better employed at home
looking after his hens. And so in these articles, I seem again to be
impersonating the ineffable Saunders, of whom I feel at liberty to speak
plainly. I see before me a long vista of self-revelations, the real title
of which ought to be "The Showing Up of Saunders."
But to return to the subject.
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