ephoning to that gentleman, who, bold and
vicious as he may be in print, is physically small and, I should say,
of a timid character, to get out of the way at once. To judge from the
abrupt fashion in which our conversation came to an end, I imagine that
the hint has been taken. At any rate, I hope for the best, and, as
an extra precaution, have communicated with the lawyers of my justly
indignant friend.

The reader will now probably understand that I am writing this book, not
to bring myself or others before the public, or to make money of which I
have no present need, or for any purpose whatsoever, except to set down
the bare and actual truth. In fact, so many rumours are flying about
as to where we have been and what befell us that this has become
almost necessary. As soon as I laid down that cruel column of gibes and
insinuations to which I have alluded--yes, this very morning, before
breakfast, this conviction took hold of me so strongly that I cabled
to Oliver, Captain Oliver Orme, the hero of my history, if it has
any particular hero, who is at present engaged upon what must be an
extremely agreeable journey round the world--asking his consent. Ten
minutes since the answer arrived from Tokyo. Here it is:

"Do what you like and think necessary, but please alter all names, et
cetera, as propose returning via America, and fear interviewers. Japan
jolly place." Then follows some private matter which I need not insert.
Oliver is always extravagant where cablegrams are concerned.

I suppose that before entering on this narration, for the reader's
benefit I had better give some short description of myself.

My name is Richard Adams, and I am the son of a Cumberland yeoman who
married a Welshwoman. Therefore I have Celtic blood in my veins, which
perhaps accounts for my love of roving and other things. I am now an old
man, near the end of my course, I suppose; at any rate, I was sixty-five
last birthday. This is my appearance as I see it in the glass before
me: tall, spare (I don't weigh more than a hundred and forty pounds--the
desert has any superfluous flesh that I ever owned, my lot having been,
like Falstaff, to lard the lean earth, but in a hot climate); my eyes
are brown, my face is long, and I wear a pointed white beard, which
matches the white hair above.

Truth compels me to add that my general appearance, as seen in that
glass which will not lie, reminds me of that of a rather aged goat;
indeed, to be fr