I picked him up in one hand and a
cake of yellow soap in the other.
Upon making the hideous discovery, I summoned “Local Board No. 163” in court martial proceedings. He was guilty; I could see it by the way his spirit sagged in the middle when I began to cross-question him. I picked him up in one hand and a cake of yellow soap and a towel in the other, and we proceeded toward the shower baths. Bur-r-r-r but that water was cold. “Local Board No. 163” didn’t enjoy it either, but I could with justice assure him that this form of punishment hurt me as much as it did him, and what is more I am likely to suffer a heap worse to-morrow.
“Local Board No. 163,” you sleep under the bed to-night.
Tuesday:
Too blasted tired to write to-night. I did a whole winter’s work this morning. Shovelled nine tons (almost) of coal into the coal bin, as a starter. Then peeled a sack of potatoes, scrubbed an acre of floor and a half-acre of table tops and benches, washed twenty ash cans, and other kitchen utensils and—oh, I’m too tired now, think I’ll wait until to-morrow.
“Local Board No. 163” sleeps out on the porch to-night.