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through a barbed wire fence in pitch darkness, and felt our way along through grass and bushes toward our objective. Suddenly Neil and I stopped, lit matches. We were about to step up to our knees in a swamp! Finally we returned to the enginehouse where we waited for #112 to come in, talking the meanwhile to Taylor, the negro maintainer, whose face reminded me strongly of Dusky's, long and sad and serious and black and jowly.

When #112 came in Andy Johnson was on her but no Buckpitt - he had gone to Berlin with J.W. Smith and party. We asked the engineer how he liked her and his reply, in a Yankee drawl was, "She's the cat's balls!" What heartier praise could one ask for than that? We stayed while Andy gave Taylor (a very intelligent acting negro) some instruction, had refreshments at the Woodsville Cafe and retired at 2:30AM in Hale's Tavern at Wells River, a very great improvement over the Wentworth at Woodsville. In our "suite" stood on a quart  of "5 Star" and two bottles of Canada Dry water, prepared for Fred Buckpitt, and untouched. Neil took a shot before going to bed, a favorite stunt with him - as for me, I have no desire for it at that time.

Wells River, Vt.,
Friday, Nov. 8, 1940.
Up at 9:00AM and breakfast in the Hale Tavern grill room, served by a demure little up-country miss, either French or Greek, with a pert, pretty face, lovely dark eyes and hair, white perfect teeth, strong beautiful little hands and sturdy well shaped body. The surprising thing about her was her poise - the way she stood before us, straight as an arrow, hands behind her, heels together, and asked us ^[[in]] a most cultured voice what she might bring us; she