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[[preprinted]]Thursday, July 29, 1909[[/preprinted]]

One of those thick Club nights tonight. Milliken goes up-country on the morrow, and about twenty-five of the local thugs assembled to help him get tight. Most of 'em succeeded.

There was the usual fusillade at the table, bread, chocolates, preserved fruit, and ice-cream, but the star shot of the evening was the lump of damp and congealed salt that Pickering caught in the ear. Oh, it was one in a thousand! That rowdy Walker was the marksman, I believe. The floor of the dining room was pretty well ankle-deep in spent

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[[preprinted]]Friday, July 30, 1909[[/preprinted]]

missiles by the time the port came around, and hostilities ceased more from want of ammunition than anything else. I slipped out to the bar and returned with the last loaf of bread in the place. Cheers. "Showers of apples," as King says.

It was in the card-room that the real rough-house took place. We were sitting in a peaceable game, when in rushed a bunch, headed by our host, that would've put that famous old "flying wedge" of Yale to shame. We were indiscriminately spilled in the midst of the table and chairs, and then they proceeded to tear up the