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The Crime



A group of happy youngsters celebrated the other night an event. What the event was is neither pertinent nor known. The point is that their rejoicing was along the traditional lines; all hard feelings were purged away with alcohol, that foremost disinfectant. Oh, nothing in excess, mind you; the precepts recently laid down by the Crimson were strictly observed.

One of the gentlemen retired, after the fun was over, in a bedroom that was a bit awry and a mental state that was distinctly more so. His last impressions were of revolving carpets and dancing chandeliers, and his parting remarks as he slipped into limbo were something about the asininity of manufacturers who turned out beds with no entrances into them.

Under such circumstances it is never pleasant to awake the next morning. Everything is so chaotic and unrecognizable, and one's head feels like a wornout battering ram. But you know all that, and you also know that the wretched one-time reveller needs humoring and kind treatment.

Figure, then, the distress of our hero, for he was awakened to the dreary world of fact by a gentle rocking of his bed, and the first sight to meet his bleary eyes was a grinning agent of Uncle Sam, dressed in blue. Young men in such positions are not particularly logical or observant. Therefore it was only after several terrifying seconds that our hero observed that his strange guest was only a mailman tendering a special delivery letter. Ever since he has been biterly cursing the paternalism of this administration, which makes mailmen so solicitous.

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