We are busy darning socks, altering tunics, collecting gear etc., all excepting the gamblers who sit round one of the tables rattling money and crying out “bust me for a crown!”, “bust me for 6d” as if there were no such thing as drafts either of men or of chill air. Have been mending puttees as I want to keep the woollen ones as long as possible.
Returned Dombey* to the Y.M.C.A. The attendant was dumb-founded to find that I had put a paper cover on it, he looked up with admiration and ejaculated, “Well, you’re a gentleman!”. He said he had a cousin in Nelson, N.Z. and to my astonishment I knew the man well.**
Donald the infuriate and elderly Scot is in great form, being 3 sheets in the wind, and his language is something to listen to. He believes in simplicity and takes only his boots off when retiring and I must also “prepare to retire” as the drill hath it.
* Likely Dombey and Son, by Charles Dickens.
** Lincoln writes ‘Frank Hornbell’ in the typescript.
Walk March 