His artlessness and his bad breaks which keep us filled with terror make the most entertaining narratives and he tells them on himself and then keeps on making new ones.

One night Jeffs came down with fever through bathing in the mountain streams, a practice which did not hurt us but which natives of the country cannot do in safety, and I confess I was scared.

Jeffs pulled through in a few days.

It was odd that the man who had lived here eleven years should have been the only one to give up throughout the whole trip and he was a good sport, too.
I will have the Central American stories all done or nearly so by the time we reach New York which is one of the comforts of this over abundance of sea voyages.

I have the lottery story nearly written and am wondering now if Bissell will let me publish it.