of trains cannot get rid of a secret conviction that their aim is to give
me the slip if it can be done. No faith in my own watch can affect my
doubts as to the reliability of the watch of the guard or the station clock
or whatever deceitful signal the engine-driver obeys. Moreover, I am
oppressed with the possibilities of delay on the road to the station. They
crowd in on me like the ghosts into the tent of King Richard. There may be
a block in the streets, the bus may break down, the taxi-driver may be
drunk or not know the way, or think I don't know the way, and take me round
and round the squares as Tony Lumpkin drove his mother round and round the
pond, or--in fact, anything may happen, and it is never until I am safely
inside (as I am now) that I feel really happy.

Now, of course this is a very absurd weakness. I ought to be ashamed to
confess it. I am ashamed to confess it. And that is the advantage of
writing under a pen name. You can confess anything you like, and nobody
thinks any the worse of you. You ease your own conscience, have a gaol
delivery of your failings--look them, so to speak, straight in the face,
and pass sentence on them--and still enjoy the luxury of not being found
out. You have all the advantages of a conviction without the nuisance of
the penalty. Decidedly, this writing under a pen name is a great easement
of the soul.

It reminds me of an occasion on which I was climbing with a famous rock
climber. 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