You'll find in the studio a scrapbook of clippings which represent my ebullitions in print.
Whitaker wants them, I believe, for purposes of conference.

It will save him running through his files.
"I've been on the road for weeks, tramping myself into blessed weariness at night.

More often than not I sleep in the open.

I'm writing this with the aid of a pocket searchlight.

Mine host, old Gaffer Moon, smiles down upon the ashes of my camp fire, full-faced and silver.