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ever carry any, principally, going against a head wind always--wonder
what is the reason of that?--and how many lies Moult has told--Oh, every
thing! I've got everything down. My father told me to keep that
journal. Father wouldn't take a thousand dollars for it when I get it
done."
"No, Jack; it will be worth more than a thousand dollars--when you get it
done."
"
"
Do you?--no, but do you think it will, though?
Yes, it will be worth at least as much as a thousand dollars--when you
get it done. May be more."
"
Well, I about half think so, myself. It ain't no slouch of a journal."
But it shortly became a most lamentable "slouch of a journal." One night
in Paris, after a hard day's toil in sightseeing, I said:
"
Now I'll go and stroll around the cafes awhile, Jack, and give you a
chance to write up your journal, old fellow."
His countenance lost its fire. He said:
"Well, no, you needn't mind. I think I won't run that journal anymore.
It is awful tedious. Do you know--I reckon I'm as much as four thousand
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