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[[pre-printed]] Thursday, November 14, 1907 [[pre-printed]]

Adabs and I had a little comedy last night about 260 bales. He told me this morning all about it, and said things couldn't be kept very dark in this burg. But he gave me an offer on 500 bales we've got in town now, and I sent it over the wire. 
Tried tennis tonight. I'm a shine of a player, and no mistake. But my batting average, - ah, thats where I shine truly. Over the fence for a homer, nine out of ten. The great Honus can't tell me where to get off when it comes to wielding the willow.

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[[pre-printed]] Friday, November 15, 1907 [[pre-printed]]
Well, we've got rid of those five hundred bales, anyway. So much off my mind.
Smith and I tennised again tonight, and in the little game afterward yours truly was stung for five twelve. 'Tis sad to ponder on, but 'tis only too true.
Bombay mail came in today. She was due last Wednesday. Cyclone in the Indian Ocean. That's what's become of our breeze the past few days.
If old Boreas will kindly unbelt now and blow us, all will be forgiven.