Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States _Drippings From the Fawcett_ A few months ago a newspaper friend of mine in New Orleans wrote about having taken a drink of the Louisiana brand and then backing against a bale of cotton as he said: “Come on, boy, let’s go.” I didn’t appreciate his humor very much at that time because I had been on the wagon for several months. I had not touched the “fiery flare” that “stealeth away the mind” principally because the morning after the night before found me in such condition that it seemed to take months of the “tapering off” process to get back in shape. However, the devil got the upper hand again and, as usual, there was the devil to pay. Somebody presented me with a nice, new-appearing black bottle bearing a shiny, greenish colored label. The alleged bonded stamp had a peculiar shade and indicated a bourbon of twelve summers. The contents, however, bore the taste of a reverse action to an old maid’s age. But the cayenne pepper, ether and tobasco sauce got in its damnable work. Two hours later I passed by the Ashley Airport, located in Robbinsdale near the Whiz Bang farm. Instead of backing against a bale of cotton, I backed against a 90 horsepower aeroplane, handed the pilot my last $50 and said: “Come on, Gus, let’s go.” And, believe me, Gus and I went some before we got off this last “bender.” The pilot, Homer Cole, veteran of four years’ service in France, fulfilled his duties in a business-like way, while Gus and myself were filling ourselves in an unbusiness-like way. Our first stop was Brainerd, Minn., a hustling city about 150 miles north of Robbinsdale. We had so much real or fancied fun on our first flight that we enveigled Cole to make another leap of 22 miles to Breezy Point lodge in the old Indian territory. Of course in the meantime we had ridded ourselves of our visible supply of tobasco sauce and both knew that our stay in my Pequot log cabin resort must be brief. Therefore, the very bright and brilliant idea soaked in the hired man’s dome, that an airship would be a necessary permanent adjunct for traveling back and forth between Robbinsdale and Pequot. Gus conducted negotiations with Cole and learned that his plane could be purchased on the installment plan. The deal was soon closed and at this writing the plane is partly mine. We managed to last it out for one day in the North pine woods and early next morning hopped off for Minneapolis, with its fond memories of many mills and motley moonshine. Later in the day, my brother, Harvey, who now conducts the business end of the little old Whiz Bang, located Gus and I in a gin mill. He handed me a nice letter of invitation to attend a convention of the Independent Magazine Distributors at the Schlitz Hotel at Atlantic City. While the convention notice sounded mighty good, the name of the hotel suggested a hankering for the good old days.