Good-by), take a package of clean underwear from his mother as he
passed by and catch the outbound train on the dead run. All he could
do was to wave to the seven other inhabitants. He thought the Grand
Central Terminal was a swell dump, though. He said: "There was quite a
lot of it," which is true.

As for myself, I think it best to pass lightly over most of the
incidents of my own personal liberty. The best part of a diary is that
one can show up one's friends to the exclusion of oneself. Anyway, why
put down the happenings of the past forty-three hours? They are
indelibly stamped on my memory. One sight I vividly recall, "Ardy"
Muggins, the multi-son of Muggins who makes the automatic clothes
wranglers. He was sitting in a full-blooded roadster in front of the
Biltmore, and the dear boy was dressed this wise ("Ardy" is a sailor,
too, I forgot to mention): There was a white hat on his head; covering
and completely obliterating his liberty blues was a huge bearskin
coat, which when pulled up disclosed his leggins neatly strapped over
patent leather dancing pumps. It was an astounding sight. One that
filled me with profound emotion.

"Aren't you a trifle out of uniform, Ardy?" I asked him. One has to be
so delicate with Ardy, he's that sensitive. "Why, I thought I might
as well embellish myself a bit," says Ardy.

"You've done all of that," says I, "but for heaven's sake, dear, do
keep away from Fourteenth Street; there are numerous sea-going sailors
down there who might embellish you still further."

"My God!" cries Ardy, striving to crush the wind out of the horn, "I
never slum."