I have just returned from the Pacific slip—slop—slope, I meant to say. Excuse the slop—I mean the slip of the tongue. I say “returned,” but I didn’t say in what way. That’s a long walk—I mean talk—I should say story. That slip—slop—slope has got me sloppy—slippy—twisted, I mean. Well, while on the slip—slop—slippery slope, I slopped—slipped in love. I fell in love from slipping on the sloppy slope. I came pretty near getting a life sentence—married, I mean; it’s the same thing. The girl I loved was a brunette by birth. You know some are brunettes by accident; this girl was born that way. I don’t like brunettes. I like the blondes. This girl from the slope was a slippery—slobbery—slobby—I mean nobby—girl and was deeply infatuated with me. She would do anybody, anything for me. She declared she would die for me—and she did. That’s how she’s a blonde now. Her father was a doctor—a “cure-all.” He claimed he could cure anything. When he found out I loved his daughter he tried to cure my love for her. He gave me a prescription. His specialty was rejections—injections, I mean. So he injected a load of buckshot into my frame. He said I needed something to increase my weight, so he filled me with lead. The prescription was a good one, though. If they hadn’t called in another doctor to pick out the shot, my love would have certainly proved fatal. They took me to a horse-pistol—I mean a hospital. While I was filled with lead the boys used to come in and borrow me to go fishing with. They used me for a stinker—I mean a sinker. One day I asked the nurse how much longer I was going to be laid up and used for a sinker and she said I’d be well enough to leave just as soon as the fish quit biting. They couldn’t find all the shot that the prescription called for, so I had to leave the hospital “half-shot.” Well, I finally did a slide from the slope and came east by way of the Northern Precipitate—Northern Pacific, I should say. We started a game of poker on the train. I lost thirty dollars. When the train was twenty miles out I was thirty dollars out. I didn’t have a cent left. The conductor asked me for my fare and just then the train stopped. One of the passengers called to the conductor and said: “What’s the matter? Anything broke?” The conductor said; “Yes, one of the passengers.” Then the conductor asked me if I could fix the “break.” I couldn’t, so I got off. Then the conductor began to kick about having to stop the train, and I was the receiver for his kicks. They came so fast I couldn’t stop them all. I do hate to feel—hear a man kick against little things. It wasn’t fair—or rather it was fare—that is, I didn’t have the fare. But anyhow it made me sore. I wouldn’t get back on his old train.