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Saturday, May 8, 1909
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Nothing worth writing down today. We took it easy. Why not? Beaver St. is but seven thousand miles away. It isn't like old CC. with his eagle eye, coming in at eight every now and then, to see if everybody gets in on time. By heck, if I'm not glad to be away from that miserable old skinflint! I wouldn't let my dog wag his tail at that old villain,- I've got too much respect for the pup. Old CC. is really, I believe, the only man I am sorry I ever met. My estimate of the human race would be much better off if he had never poked himself into the calculation.

I gave him one shot as I left, didn't I? It's my only cheerful recollection of him.

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Sunday, May 9, 1909
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The sun came out brite and fair at lunch-time today, so I determined on a little trip to Mazeras. No sooner had I bought my ticket and settled down in my compartment, than it struck up outside, and it rained Katzen und Hunde until we got back to Mombasa. Then it miraculously ceased. Always the way.

Boys, do you remember that trip to Portland, and the dodges old Jupe Pluvius sprung on us? No man could deny, after that performance, that that rain wasn't gifted with almost human power to make itself as disagreeable as possible, and it's bloody sarcasm in clearing up just in time, for us to go to work when we got back, was the worst trick of all.