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Sunday, February 19, 1911
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The Italians paid the usual cocktail call this morning, and Amoretti confided the fact that his head hurt. The usual symptoms,- a dull, splitting affair in the crane, and a mouth like the floor of a birdcage. Oh, I know, but it's been some time ago, now. I'm one of the Blue Ribbon Army now. Amour belongs to the Reds,- "We eats what we likes, and we drinks what we likes, and we don't give a damn for nobody."

Stayed to hum all day. Yacht race in Kilindi but I was too tired to go over. Going to start packing tomorrow!

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Monday, February 20, 1911
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It begins to look as tho' I was a-gwine home. Got my ticket today, which is safely reposing midst the leaves of this journal, and then I packed my big trunk and laid the groundwork of the others. Said ticket will be returned for a slight correction, as my name is hardly Domaskey. Not so's you'd notice it. 

Watson finally got away for upcountry this morning, and I went up to the Station to see him off. I expect to see him in Boston before long. His firm certainly ought to send him home. 

Weather. Hottern hell these days. But a fairly strong monsoon. Bearable, but hardly comfortable. 

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