Wed. noon.

Dearest,

I haven’t very much time but I recieved your letter yesterday and tried to find time to write you last night. I have swimming next period and then I am through for the rest of the day out side of writing a theme and doing some math problems and some Chemistry problems so I will have time for alittle rest, like heQQQQQ. I will finish this after swimming so don’t go away.

6:30—

Sorry, but just got back to my room. I was planning on finishing this at two-thirty, but I had to go down to Chicago for one of the fellows in the house. Darling, I do’t know how you felt after the Alumni Dance last spring, but I know I felt awful funny; so, therefore I have experienced the same sensation. I really wanted to come back last summer, but thought it was useless to try. Ususually after dinner every evening Steve and I take a walk along the lake; he is quite interested in a girl up north, and you and she are the main topics of discussion.

Only sixteen more days, and while we’re on the subject, I might as well ask you for a date now. How about Saturday night, the twentieth?

Sunday night we had an exchange dinner with the Pi Phi’s, and there was something in the meal that made everybody sick. As it happened, Steve and I had ducked out and eaten up town, and anyway there were about a dozen kids in the house that got sick, including my two room-mates. They couldn’t even go to school Tuesday. If they’d eaten much more they wouldn’t have needed a doctor; a couple of the boys are still in the hospital. Hand and Bud got sick Monday night and carried on quite a fuss, but do to excellent nursing on my part, they’re as fit as a fiddle today. Ole Doc Cartmell knows his stuff, but for a while I thought it would be a case for the morgue. (I better quite slinging this bull—)

I’d better close this before the mailman gets tired of waiting, and besides I’m afraid you’d pass out if you got a two-page letter. See you in sixteen days.

With love,

Tom