I am Percival of Thorndyke.  I am not Eaglethorpe Buxton and these are not his words, but are my own.  I give him sole ownership, which is to say copyright, of these words, but they originated by me out of my own mouth.  If I am not as well spoken as normal, it is because I am not now Eaglethorpe Buxton and never have been, even though I might wish to be, for he is the greatest storyteller in the world and I, Percival Thorndyke do so swear upon the lives of my two… no three sisters.

I woke up early the next morning and looking down, saw Eaglethorpe still asleep.  Because remember, I’m not Eaglethorpe.  I decided that I would walk down to the small pond and take a morning bath, because unlike Eaglethorpe I have led a sheltered and easy life—one might well say an unmanly life.

I peeled off my clothes and spent a good half hour washing and having a good old time, and I seemed not to have a single care that something might happen to my friend, whom I had left defenseless and sleeping among the trees.  Fortunately nothing happened to him.  If it had, I would have torn my skin and plucked out my eyes, that the world, but for a little care on my part, had been deprived of such a man as Eaglethorpe Buxton, whom I repeat is not me.