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[[preprinted]] Sunday, October 3, 1909 [[/preprinted]] Did nothing today but write out accounts in the morning and take a turn around the island in the afternoon. Into the feathers at nine. I use the word "feathers" in jest, of course. To bind a man down in a featherbed out here would be a stunt that would make the frivolities of the Inquisition look like 1/2 1/2 d. [[end page]] [[start page]] [[preprinted]] Monday, October 4, 1909 [[/preprinted]] Eleven months more! We're not counting in "years" any more. When I'm on the last lap, I'll be counting in "weeks", — across the Atlantic I'll be counting up "days" on my fingers. When I get aboard the Boston train I'll be counting "hours"," and at Back Bay I'll be figuring minutes. No doubt everyone near me will think I'm demented. But when I get onto Burr St., and am ticking off seconds, I guess I'll be just plain, common, everyday bug-house.