Viewing page 104 of 158

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

[[preprinted]]Saturday, July 31, 1909[[/preprinted]]

room by the roots. There wasn't an upright chair or table there after half a minute, [[strikethrough]]and[[/strikethrough]] the wall-lamps were simply wiped clean out, and the floor was a mass of cards, scorepads, and hats. They must have swiped those hats off the rack as they came along.

After watching the wrestling out on the veranda, we resumed our game, – or rather, started another. Came away with nineteen chips worth. Not so bad.

[[end page]]
[[start page]]

[[preprinted]]Sunday, August 1, 1909[[/preprinted]]

It seems poor old Sanderson, who'd had some strenuous jiu jitsu after Milliken's dinner, woke up the next morning and found two of his slats broken. He's in the hospital now, moralizing over the evils of strong and abundant fire-water when combined with the athletics of old Japan. Add a stray chair with a prominent leg to fall on, and it's a combination that can't be beat.

It's six weeks for his.