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Tuesday, March 24, 1908
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On the Fritz today.  I got a blister as big as a Bryan dollar on my heel from wearing a pair of those bloomin' Parsee shoes. However, they came to only twelve annas, so my experience didn't cost much. Smith put on some spavin-salve when tennis ^[[time]] came around and as it read on the yellow paper, "Be sure to work the horse," I went out and Stritt and I won a hot doubles, nine to seven no gate. 
Weather Slick.
Business rotten.
Not a show in town. 

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Wednesday, March 25, 1908 
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Nothing to do today but write a letter to NY. This sitting around doing nothing all day is beginning to pall on me. Fact, I'm getting fed up on it.  If I only had some young thing to sit in my lap and fondle me the time might pass a little less slowly, but we're denied even that harmless amusement out here.  It do beat hell.

It was Mulvaney, I think, who'd "put his feet through ivery wan o' th' tin commandments," but that was in India, come to think of it, not Aden.  They say things happen over there, ^[[if]] you're not looking.  This is a Puritanical spot, though.