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[[preprinted]] Friday, February 5, 1909 [[/preprinted]]

All the boys came around looking for chits today. There's some more trouble up in Somaliland and the house boys say that unless they have certificates showing they're employed here, they'll be toted off to the war. There's a detachment of the K.A.R. in town from up-country waiting for a steamer,- they're great, big husky buck niggers, [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] and unlike most of their ilk, have the reputation of having guts.    

If the Swahilis ever get ahold of any of these [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] Swahilis, there'll be only one team in the game, and it won't be the Mombasas.

The cook didn't get any chit. I wont have the luck to have him ketched, though.

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[[preprinted]] Saturday, February 6, 1909 [[/preprinted]]

Butted into the club. This is a  proprietor's club down here, and almost anybody is acceptable. That's the main reason why I got in.  I hardly think I shall be over there much- not from any what the British call "conservatism" but which is really damned "side", but because I have cut out  being a large and steady consumer of the Hennessy and Gin Plum output. There is really nothing else to do over there and I wish to stick to my simple life.

I'm getting so damned unreasonably good that sometimes I really think I'll wind up ^[[by]] being a temperance spellbinder.

It would kill Louis.