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Tuesday, April 7, 1908
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I gathered up all my nerve tonight and beat it down to the club. We sat out on the terrace and chinned with a bunch of captured females, drank two paus, and agreed with Mrs. B. that we were having a devil of a time. Never had so much fun in one night in all my life, before.
 
After that we went to the Consul Sahib's for dinner,- I always enjoy myself there. It's better than rubbing the varnish off the chairs at the Club, using myself for that function, that's a lead pipe cert. 

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Wednesday, April 8, 1908 
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Had a little mail to write today, that's all. I finished up those damned quarterly accounts, and schenked 'em along with the rest of my weekly wail about dull times. 

"Abas th' job", as our friend from Ar-r-chey Road would say. I miss Dooley out here. That reminds me of one Bond told to the British Colonel chap at the Club last night. "Dooley, that is, Dunne," related Bond, "Said that Oom Paul 'looked like a goat and had many of its [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] peculiarities.' "

The B.C.c. never blinked a suspicion of a blink. That's what comes of those joke diagrams in Punch.