Wake had nothing in his pack but plasmon biscuits and raisins, for that, he said, was his mountaineering provender, but he was not averse to sampling my tinned stuff.

He was a different-sized fellow out in the hills from the anaemic intellectual of Biggleswick.
He had forgotten his beastly self-consciousness, and spoke of his hobby with a serious passion.

It seemed he had scrambled about everywhere in Europe, from the Caucasus to the Pyrenees.

I could see he must be good at the job, for he didn't brag of his exploits.

It was the mountains that he loved, not wriggling his body up hard places.