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 contented isolation (stoically maintained) of a hospitable Rye home. . . friends, a few parties. . . swimming, riding, dancing, in tantalizing driblets. . . brief recesses from work. . . Tunney vs. Heeney, my first fight (a boxer's career is measured by minutes in the ring; an aviator's by hours in the air). . . more writing―much more.

Such is my jumbled retrospect of the seven weeks which have crowded by since we returned to America.

Finally the little book is done, such as it is. Tomorrow I am free to fly.

Now, I have checked over, from first to last, this manuscript of mine. Frankly, I'm far from confident of its air-worthiness, and don't know how to rate its literary horse-power or estimate its cruising radius and climbing ability. Confidentially, it may never even make the take-off.

If a crash comes, at least there'll be no fatalities. No one can see more comedy in the disaster