It seems that I have been in the
service long enough to know how to do the thing right by now, but the
seventh hitch is a sly little devil and always gets me. I need a
longer line or a shorter hammock, but the only way out of it that I
can see is to get a commission and rate a bed.
[Illustration: "I CARRIED ALL THE FLOUR TO-DAY THAT WAS RAISED LAST
YEAR IN THE SOUTHERN SECTION OF THE STATE OF MONTANA"]
I carried all the flour to-day that was raised last year in the
southern section of the State of Montana, and I was carrying it well
and cheerfully until one of my pet finger nails (the one that the
manicure girls in the Biltmore used to rave about) thrust itself
through the sack and precipitated its contents upon myself and the
floor. A commissary steward when thoroughly aroused is a poisonous
member of society. One would have thought that I had sunk the great
fleet the way this bird went on about one little sack of flour.
"Here Mr. Hoover works hard night and day all winter," he sobs at me,
"and you go spreading it around as if you were Marie Antoinette."
I wondered what new scandal he had about Marie Antoinette, but I held
my peace. My horror was so great that the real color of my face made
the flour look like a coat of sunburn in comparison.
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