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[[preprinted]] Thursday, August 12, 1909 [[/preprinted]]

Pickering and Butti and the Admiral were over to dinner last night, and ye host skun them for 'arf a quid. It is sad when I reflect that I was the one [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] ^who suggested playing mess-points, instead of club. I should have known enough to leave well-enough alone. Still, ten bob is better than a poke in the eye.

12th (continued)
at home by their fore-fathers, no wonder the colonists knew how to soak in a good one by the time old George the III commenced to get too gay wit' us.

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[[preprinted]] Friday, August 13, 1909 [[/preprinted]]

My little dinner came off up at the Grand tonight, and I think may safely be called a success. Old Jo got bloody tight, - even old Bröde and the staid Lang fell under the influence of the "wealthy water", as Jo terms it.  Hugo S. was there all the time with his inimitable boleros and hootcha ma kooch, with that ungodly smile and his Spanish vocabulary at the end. But when he started to throw all the chairs out the window and taking the [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] panes with 'em, we [[strikethrough]] [[?]] [[/strikethrough]] all slipped our cables in accord, and adjourned to the club. There we bridged until the gong, and then to bed.