"Better stay at home and do your own countrymen. You'll find it easier," gravely admonished Billy. "You are on your own ground and know the country and the ways of the people. You'd have a hard time of it over there; mind now, I'm giving it to you straight. I don't think you're serious about going."
"Serious and sober as a judge, Billy. I've been thinking about this thing for a long time. Let me tell you something else, Billy, that I haven't told you before. I intend to keep a diary when I get on the other side and write down everything I see worth noting."
"The hell you are," profanely responded Billy; "what are you going to do with it after it is written down?"
"Have it printed in a book," calmly responded I.
Billy regarded me intently, as a dog does a human being whom he is trying to understand and cannot, and then when the full force of my revelation struck him he dropped on the bed and laughed and laughed until I thought he'd split his sides.
"What's tickling you, Billy?" asked I, grinning, for his antics made me laugh.
"You—you—" here he went off into another fit. "You write a book? Say, Windy, I've been traveling with you a long while but I never suspected you were touched in the upper story."
"No more touched than you are, Billy," said I indignantly. Billy rose up.
"So you're going to write a book, eh?" asked Billy, still laughing. "Do you know anything about grammar, geography or composition?"
"You bet I do, Billy; I was pretty fair at composition when I was at school, but I always hated grammar and don't know much about it."