I am by no means sure that I might not have been tempted to enlarge
upon the subject, had not the papers that lay before me on the
table been a silent reproach for even this digression. I took them
up again when I had got thus far, and seriously prepared to read.
The handwriting was strange to me, for the manuscript had been
fairly copied. As it is against our rules, in such a case, to
inquire into the authorship until the reading is concluded, I could
only glance at the different faces round me, in search of some
expression which should betray the writer. Whoever he might be, he
was prepared for this, and gave no sign for my enlightenment.
I had the papers in my hand, when my deaf friend interposed with a
suggestion.
'It has occurred to me,' he said, 'bearing in mind your sequel to
the tale we have finished, that if such of us as have anything to
relate of our own lives could interweave it with our contribution
to the Clock, it would be well to do so. This need be no restraint
upon us, either as to time, or place, or incident, since any real
passage of this kind may be surrounded by fictitious circumstances,
and represented by fictitious characters. What if we make this an
article of agreement among ourselves?'
The proposition was cordially received, but the difficulty appeared
to be that here was a long story written before we had thought of
it.
'Unless,' said I, 'it should have happened that the writer of this
tale - which is not impossible, for men are apt to do so when they
write - has actually mingled with it something of his own endurance
and experience.
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