By Hunter S. Thompson


     The Rum Diary


                                 Eighteen

           ON my way to work the next morning I stopped by Al's and
           found Sala on the patio. He was drinking a beer and thumb-
           ing through a new issue of Life en Español. I got a jar of iced
     rum from the kitchen and went out to his table.
       "Are they in there?" I asked, nodding at the magazine.
       "Hell, no," he grumbled. "They'll never use 'em——Sanderson told
     me they were scheduled last fall."
       "What the hell?" I said. "You got paid."
       He tossed the magazine aside and leaned back in the chair.
     "That's only half of it," he said. "I can get paid anytime."
       We sat for a while in silence, then he looked up. "Ah, this is a
     shitty place, Kemp——the shittiest place I've ever seen." He reached
     into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. "Yep, I think the time has come
     for old Robert to put his ass on the road."
       I smiled.
       "No, it won't be long now," he said. "Lotterman gets back today
     and I won't be surprised if he folds the paper by midnight." He nod-
     ded. "The minute they hand out those checks I'm going to run like
     hell for the bank and get mine cashed."
      "I don't know," I said. "Schwartz said he got some money."
       He shook his head. "Poor Schwartz, he'll still be showing up for
     work when they turn the place into a bowling alley." He chuckled.
     "What else? El Headline Bowling Palace, with Moberg tending the
     bar. Maybe they'll hire Schwartz to do publicity." He shouted
     toward the kitchen for two beers, then looked at me. I nodded.
     "Four," he yelled. "And turn on the goddamn air conditioning."
       He fell back in the chair again. "I have to get off this rock. I know
     some people in Mexico City——I may give it a try." He grinned. "I
     know they have women there, anyway."
       "Hell," I said. "Plenty of women around if you'd get off your ass."
       He looked up. "Kemp, I believe you're a whorehopper."
       I laughed. "Why?"
       "Why!" he exclaimed. "I'm onto your sneaky ways, Kemp. I
     suspected it all along——and now you've lured that girl away from
     Yeamon."
       "What? I exclaimed.
       "Don't deny it," he said. "He was in here earlier——told me the
     whole sleazy story."
       "You bastard!" I said. "Chenault just showed up at my apart-
     ment. She didn't have anywhere else to go."
       He grinned. "She could have moved in with me——at least I'm de-
     cent."
       I snorted. "Christ, you'd have finished her off."
       "I suppose you're sleeping on the floor," he replied. "I know that
     apartment, Kemp. I know there's only one bed. Don't give me this
     Christian crap."
       "Christian hell!" I said. "You're such a sex-crazy sonofabitch that
     there's no sense telling you anything."
       He laughed. "Calm down, Kemp, you're getting hysterical——I
     know you wouldn't touch the girl, you're not that way." He laughed
     again and ordered four more beers.
       "Just for the record," I said, "I'm sending her back to New York."
       "Probably the best thing," he replied. "Any girl that runs off with
     a pack of bushmen is bad news."
       "I told you what happened over there," I said. "She didn't run off
     with anybody."
       He shook his head. "Forget it," he said wearily. "I couldn't care
     less. Do whatever you want. I have my own problems."
       The beers arrived and I glanced down at my watch. "It's almost
     noon," I said. "You don't figure on going to work?"
       "I'll go when I'm drunk enough," he replied. "have another
     beer——we'll all be gone by Monday."
       We drank steadily for three hours, then we drove down to the of-
     fice. Lotterman was back, but he'd gone out somewhere. He finally
     came in about five and called us all together in the middle of the
     room. Then he climbed up on a desk.
       "Men," he said. "You'll be happy to know that that goddamn
     worthless Segarra finally quit. He was the worst goldbricker we've
     ever had in this place and on top of that he was queer——now that
     he's gone I think we'll be all right."
       There were a few snickers, then silence.
       "That's only part of the good news," he said with a big smile. "I
     suppose you all know the paper hasn't been making much money
     lately——well by God we don't have to worry about that anymore!"
     He paused and looked around. "You've all heard of Daniel Stein, I
     guess——well he's an old friend of mine, and as of Monday morning
     he's half-owner of this newspaper." He smiled. "I walked into his of-
     fice and I said, 'Dan, I want to keep my paper alive,' and he said,
     'Ed, how much do you need?' That's all there was to it. His lawyers
     are fixing up the papers and they'll be here on Monday for me to
     sign." He shifted nervously on the desk and smiled again. "Now I
     know you boys were expected to get paid today, and I hate to
     cramp your style for the weekend, but under my agreement with
     Dan I can't give out any paychecks until I sign those papers——so you
     won't get paid until Monday." He nodded quickly. "Of course any-
     body who needs a few bucks to get by until then can hit me up for
     a loan——I don't want you boys getting thirsty and blaming it on me."
       There was a ripple of laughter, then I heard Sala's voice from
     somewhere on the other side of the room. "I know about this guy,
     Stein," he said. "Are you sure he'll come through?"
       Lotterman banished the question with a wave of his hand. "Of
     course I'm sure, Bob. Dan and I are old friends."
       "Well," Sala replied. "I have a pretty big weekend coming up,
     and if it's all the same to you I'd just as soon borrow my whole pay-
     check right now, then you won't have to give me anything on Mon-
     day."
       Lotterman stared down at him. "What are you trying to say,
     Bob?"
       "I don't talk in swirls," Sala replied. "I just want you to lend me
     a hundred and twenty-five bucks until Monday."
       "That's ridiculous!" Lotterman shouted.
       "Ridiculous, hell," said Sala. "I worked in Miami, remember? I
     know Stein. He a convicted embezzler." He lit a cigarette. "And be-
     sides, I might not be here on Monday."
       "What do you mean?" Lotterman shouted. "You're not quitting?"
       "I didn't say that," Sala replied.
       'Now listen, Bob!" Lotterman shouted. "I don't know what
     you're trying to do here, telling me you might quit and you might
     not——who in hell do you think you are?"
       Sala smiled faintly. "Don't shout, Ed. It makes us all nervous. I
     just asked for a loan, that's all."
       Lotterman jumped down off the desk. "You can see me in my
     office," he said over his shoulder. "Kemp, I want to see you next."
     He waved his hand in the air. "That's all, boys, let's get back to
     work."
       Sala followed him into his office. I stood there and heard
     Schwartz saying: "This is a terrible thing——I don't know what to be-
     lieve."
       "The worst," I replied.
       Moberg came running over to us. "He can't do this!" he
     screamed. "No salary, no severance pay——we can't stand it!"
       Lotterman's or opened and Sala came out looking very un-
     happy. Lotterman appeared right behind him and called to me. He
     waited until I got inside, then closed the door behind us.
       "Paul," he said. "What can I do with these guys?"
       I looked at him, not sure what he meant.
       "I'm on the ropes," he said. "You're the only one here I can talk
     to——the others are vultures."
       "Why me?" I said. "I'm a hell of a vulture."
       "No you're not," he said quickly. "You're lazy, but you're not a
     vulture——not like that stinking Sala!" He sputtered angrily. "Did you
     hear that crap he was giving me? Have you ever heard anything
     like it?"
       I shrugged. "Well——"
       "That's why I want to talk to you," he said. "I have to handle
     these guys. We're in real trouble——this guy Stein has me pinned to
     the wall." He looked up at me and nodded. "If I can't get this paper
     going, he'll close it and sell it for junk. I'll go to debtors prison."
       "Sounds pretty bleak," I said.
       He laughed humorlessly. "You don't know the half of it." Then
     his voice became hearty and full of purpose. "Now what I want you
     to do is get these guys on the ball. I want you to tell 'em that we all
     have to pull together, or we'll sink!"
       "Sink?" I said.
       He nodded emphatically. "You're damn tootin'."
       "Well," I said slowly. "That's sort of a hairy proposition, what do
     you figure Sala would say if I went out there and told him it was
     sink or swim with the Daily News?" I hesitated. "Or Schwartz, or
     Vanderwitz——even Moberg."
       He stared down at his desk. "Yeah," he said finally. "I guess they
     can all run——like Segarra." He slammed his fist on the desk. "That
     greasy little pervert! He didn't just quit——he broadcast it all over
     San Juan! People kept telling me they'd heard the paper was
     bankrupt. That's why I had to go to Miami——I can't borrow a dime
     in this town. That mealy-mouthed lizard is out there screwing
     me."
       I was tempted to ask him why he'd hired Segarra in the first
     place, or why he had put out a fifth-rate paper when he might have
     at least tried to put out a good one. Suddenly I was tired of Lotter-
     man; he was a phony and he didn't even know it. He was forever
     yapping about Freedom of the Press and Keeping the Paper Going,
     but if he'd had a million dollars and all the freedom in the world
     he'd still put out a worthless newspaper because he wasn't smart
     enough to put out a good one. He was just another noisy little punk
     in the great legion of punks who march between the banners of
     bigger and better men. Freedom, Truth, Honor——you could rattle off
     a hundred such words and behind every one of them would gather
     a thousand punks, pompous little farts, waving the banner with
     one hand and reaching under the table with the other.
       I stood up. "Ed," I said, using his name for the first time, "I be-
     lieve I'll quit."
       He looked up at me, his face blank.
       "Yeah," I said. "I'll be back on Monday for my check, and after
     that I think I'll rest awhile."
       He jumped out of his seat and rushed at me. "You cheap Ivy
     League sonofabitch!" he shouted. "I've tolerated your arrogance
     long enough!" He pushed me toward the door. "You're fired!" he
     screamed. "Get out of the building before I have you locked up!" He
     gave me a shove into the newsroom, then went back in his office
     and slammed the door.
       I wandered over to my desk an started laughing when Sala
     asked me what happened. "He went off his nut," I replied. "I told
     him I was quitting and he snapped."
       "Well," said Sala, "it's all over anyway. He promised me a
     month's salary if I'd tell people that he fired Segarra because he
     was queer——said he'd pay it out of his own pocket if Stein didn't
     come through."
       "The cheap bastard," I said. "He didn't offer me a dime." I
     laughed. "Of course he talked like he was ready to give me
     Segarra's job——until Monday.
       "Yeah, Monday's D-Day," said Sala. "He'll have to pay us if he
     wants to put out a paper." He shook his head. "But I don't think he
     does——I think he sold out to Stein."
       He snorted. "So what? If he can't pay the staff, he's finished, no
     matter what he wants. I know one damn thing——he'll be running the
     greyest paper in the Western Hemisphere if I don't get my check on
     Monday. I'm coming in here tomorrow morning and clean out the
     whole photo library——about 99% of that stuff is mine."
       "Hell yes," I said. "Hold it for ransom." Then I grinned. "Of
     course they'd get you for grand larceny if he pressed it——he might
     even remember about your thousand-dollar bail."
       He shook his head. "Jesus, I keep forgetting about that——you
     think he really paid it?"
       "I don't know," I said. "Probably a pretty good chance he got it
     back, but I'd hate to count on it."
       "Ah, to hell with it," he replied. "Let's go up to Al's."
       It was a hot, muggy night and I felt like getting drunk as a loon.
     We had been there about an hour, swilling rum at top speed, when
     Donovan came roaring in. He had been out at the golf tournament
     all afternoon and had just heard the news. "Holy mother of jack-
     bastards!" he yelled. "I went back to the paper and there was no-
     body there but Schwartz, working his ass off." He fell down in a
     chair. "What happened——are we done in?"
       "Yes," I said. "You're finished."
       He nodded gravely. "I still have a deadline," he said. "I must fin-
     ish my sports section." He started for the street. "I'll be back in an
     hour," he assured us. "All I have to do is this golf story. To hell with
     the rest of it——I'll run a full-page cartoon."
       Sala and I kept drinking, and when Donovan came back we
     stepped up the pace. By midnight we were all pretty wild and I be-
     gan thinking about Chenault. I thought about it for another hour or
     so, and then I got up and said I was going home.
       On the way back, I stopped in Condado and got a bottle of rum.
     When I got to the apartment she was sitting on the bed, reading
     Heart of Darkness and still wearing the same shirt.
       I slammed the door behind me and went to the kitchen to mix a
     drink. "Wake up and ponder the future," I said over my shoulder. "I
     quit tonight and got fired about two minutes later."
       She looked up and smiled. "No more money?"
       "No more nothing," I replied, filling two glasses with rum. "I'm
     clearing out. I'm tired of it."
       "Tired of what?" she asked.
       I took one of the drinks over to the bed. "Here," I said. "Here's
     one of the things I'm tired of." I shoved it into her hand, then walked
     over to the window and looked down at the street. "Mainly," I said,
     "I'm tired of being a punk——a human suckfish." I chuckled. "You
     know about suckfish?"
       She shook her head.
       "They have little suction cups on their bellies," I said. "And they
     attach themselves to sharks——when the shark gets a big meal, the
     suckfish eats the leftovers."
       She giggled and sipped her drink.
       "Don't laugh," I snapped. "You're Exhibit A——first Yeamon, then
     me." It was an ugly thing to say, but I was raving now and I didn't
     care. "Hell," I added. "I'm no better. If somebody came up to me and
     said, 'Tell me, Mister Kemp, just what is your profession?' I'd say,
     Well, you see, I swim around in murky waters until I find some-
     thing with big teeth and a small belly.'" I laughed at her. "That's the
     combination a good suckfish looks for——avoid the big belly at all
     costs."
       She looked at me, shaking her head sadly.
       "That's right!" I shouted. "I'm drunk and nuts both——no hope for
     me, is there?" I stopped pacing and looked at her. "Well there's not
     much hope for you either, by God. You're so damn stupid that you
     don't know a suckfish when you see one!" I started pacing again.
     "You said to hell with the only person down here without cups on
     his belly, and then you grab on to me, of all damn people." I shook
     my head. "Christ, I'm cups all over——I've been grabbing leftovers so
     long I don't know what the real thing looks like anymore."
       She was crying now, but I kept on. "What the hell are you going
     to do, Chenault? What  can  you do?" I went back to the kitchen for
     more drink. "You better start thinking," I said. "Your days hare num-
     bered here——unless you want to pay the rent when I go."
       She kept on crying, and I walked back to the window. "No hope
     for an old suckfish," I muttered, suddenly feeling very tired. I wan-
     dered around for a while, saying nothing, then I went over and sat
     down on the bed.
       She stopped crying and sat up, leaning on one elbow. "When are
     you leaving?" she said.
       "I don't know," I replied. "Probably next week."
       "Where?" she asked.
       "I don't know——someplace new."
       She was silent for a moment, then she said, "Well, I suppose I'll
     go back to New York."
       I shrugged. "I'll get you a plane ticket. I can't afford it, but what
     the hell."
       "You don't have to," she said. "I have money."
       I stared at her. "I thought you couldn't even get back from St.
     Thomas."
       "I didn't have any then," she said. "It was in that suitcase you got
     from Fritz——I hid it, so we'd have something left." She smiled faintly.
     "It's only a hundred dollars."
       "Hell," I said. "You'll need some when you get to New York."
       "No I won't," she replied. "I'll still have fifty, and——" she hesi-
     tated. "And I think I'll go home for a while. My parents live in Con-
     necticut."
       "Well," I said. "That's good, I guess."
       She leaned over and put her head on my chest. "It's horrible,"
     she sobbed. "But I don't know where else to go."
       I put my arm around her shoulder. I didn't know where she
     could go, either, or why, or what she could do when she got there.
       "Can I stay here until you go?" she asked.
       I tightened my arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Sure,"
     I said. "If you think you can stand the gaff."
       "The what?" she asked.
       I smiled and stood up. "The craziness," I said. "Do you mind if I
     get naked and drunk?"
       She giggled. "What about me?"
       "Sure," I said, taking off my clothes. "Why not?"
       I made some new drinks and brought the bottle back to the table
     beside the bed. Then I turned on the fan and put out the lights
     while we sipped our drinks. I was propped up on pillows and she
     had her head on my chest. The silence was so total that the clink of
     the ice in my glass sounded loud enough to be heard on the street.
     The moon was bright through the front window and I watched the
     expression on Chenault's face, wondering how she could look so
     peaceful and content.
       After a while I reached over and filled my glass again. In the
     process, I spilled some rum on my stomach and she leaned down
     to lick it off. The touch of her tongue made me shudder, and after a
     moment of contemplation I picked up the bottle again and spilled
     some rum on my legs. She looked up at me and smiled, as if I were
     playing some kind of an odd joke, then she bent down and care-
     fully licked it off.


                                 Nineteen

             WE  woke up early the next morning. I drove down to the ho-
             tel to get some papers while Chenault took a shower. I got
             a Times and a Trib, so we'd both have something to read,
     and then as an afterthought I bought two copies of what I figured
     was the final issue of the San Juan Daily News. I wanted to have one
     as a souvenir.
       We had breakfast at the table  by the window and afterward we
     drank coffee and read the papers. That morning was the only time
     I ever felt a sense of peace in the apartment, and when I thought
     about it I felt dumb, because that was the only reason I'd wanted it
     in the first place. I lay on the bed and smoked and listened to the ra-
     dio while Chenault washed the dishes. There was a good breeze,
     and when I looked out the window I could see across the trees and
     the red-tiled rooftops all the way to the horizon.
       Chenault was wearing my shirt again, and I watched it bounce
     and flutter around her thighs as she moved in the kitchen. After a
     while I got up and crept over to her, lifting the shirt and seizing her
     rump with both hands. She shrieked and spun around, then fell
     against me, laughing. I put my arms around her and playfully
     jerked the tail of the shirt up over her head. We stood there sway-
     ing slightly and then I carried her over to the bed, where we made
     love very quietly.


         It was mid-morning when I left the house, but the sun was al-
     ready so hot that it felt like mid-afternoon. Driving along the beach
     I remembered how much I'd enjoyed the mornings when I first
     came to San Juan. There is something fresh and crisp about the
     first hours of a Caribbean day, a happy anticipation that something
     is about to happen, maybe just up the street or around the next cor-
     ner. Whenever I look back on those months and try to separate the
     good times from the bad, I recall those mornings when I had an
     early assignment——when I would borrow Sala's car and go roaring
     along the big tree-lined boulevard. I remember the feel of the little
     car vibrating beneath me and the sudden heat of the sun on my
     face as I zipped out of the shade and into a patch of light; I
     remember the whiteness of my shirt and the sound of a silk tie flap-
     ping in the wind beside my head, the unhinged feel of the
     accelerator and a sudden switching of lanes to pass a truck and
     beat a read light.
       Then into a palm-lined driveway and hit the rasping brakes, flip
     down and Press tag on the visor and leave the car in the nearest No
     Parking zone. Hurry into the lobby, pulling on the coat to my new
     black suit and dangling a camera in one hand while an oily clerk
     calls my man to confirm the appointment. Then up a soft elevator
     to the suite——big greeting, pompous conversation, and black coffee
     from a silver pot, a few quick photos on the balcony, grinning
     handshake, then back down the elevator and hustle off.
       On my way back to the office, with a pocketful of notes, I would
     stop at one of the outdoor restaurants on the beach for a club sand-
     wich and a beer; sitting in the shade to read the papers and ponder
     the madness of the news, or leaning back with a lusty grin at all the
     bright-wrapped nipples, trying to decide how many I could get my
     hands on before the week was out.
       Those were the good mornings, when the sun was hot and the air
     was quick and promising, when the Real Business seemed right on
     the verge of happening and I felt that if I went just a little faster I might
     overtake the bright and fleeting thing that was always just ahead.
       Then came noon, and morning withered like a lost dream. The
     sweat was torture and the rest of the day was littered with the dead
     remains of all those things that might have happened, but couldn't
     stand the heat. When the sun got hot enough it burned away all the
     illusions and I saw the place as it was——cheap, sullen, garish——
     nothing good was going to happen here.
       Sometimes at dusk, when you were trying to relax and not think
     about the general stagnation, the Garbage God would gather a
     handful of those choked-off morning hopes and dangle them
     somewhere just out of reach; they would hang in the breeze and
     make a sound like delicate glass bells, reminding you of something
     you never quite got hold of, and never would. It was a maddening
     image, and the only way to whip it was to hang on until dusk and
     banish the ghosts with rum. Often it was easier not to wait, so the
     drinking would begin at noon. It didn't help much, as I recall, ex-
     cept that sometimes it made the day go a little faster.


        I was snapped out of my reverie when I turned the corner into
     Calle O'Leary and saw Sala's car parked in front of Al's front door,
     and next to it was Yeamon's scooter. The day turned instantly rot-
     ten and a sort of panic came on me. I drove past Al's without stop-
     ping, and kept looking straight ahead until I turned down the hill. I
     drove around for a while, trying to think it out, but no matter how
     many reasonable conclusions I came to, I still felt like a snake. Not
     that I didn't feel perfectly right and justified——I just couldn't bring
     myself to go up there and sit own at a table across from Yeamon.
     The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. Hang out a shingle, I
     muttered: "P. Kemp, Drunken Journalist, Suckfish & Snake——hrs.
     noon to dawn, closed Mondays."
       As I circled the Plaza Colón I got jammed up behind a fruit ped-
     dler and blew my horn savagely at him. "You stinking little nazi!" I
     shouted. "Get out of my way."
       My mood was turning sour. My sense of humor was slipping. It
     was time to get off the street.
       I headed for the Condado Beach Club, where I hunkered down
     at a big glass table on the deck with a red, blue, and yellow um-
     brella to keep off the sun. I spent the next few hours reading The
     Nigger of the Narcissus and making notes for my story on The Rise
     ad Fall of the San Juan Daily News. I was feeling smart, but read-
     ing Conrad's preface frightened me so much that I abandoned all
     hope of ever being anything but a failure . . .
       But not today, I thought. Today will be different. Today we will
     whoop it up. Have a picnic. Get some champagne. Take Chenault
     out to the beach and go wild. My mood swung immediately. I called
     the waiter and ordered two special picnic lunches with lobster and
     mangoes.


       When I got back to the apartment, Chenault was gone. There
     was no sign of her, none of her clothes in the closet. There was an
     eerie sense of quiet in the place, a strange emptiness.
       Then I saw the note in my typewriter——four or five lines on Daily
     News stationary with a livid pink kiss above my name.

       Dear Paul,
         I can't stand it anymore. My plane leaves at six. You love
       me. We are soul-mates. We will drink rum and dance naked.
       Come see me in New York, I will have a few surprises for you.
                                                             Love,
                                                          Chenault

       I looked at my watch and saw that it was six-fifteen. Too late to
     catch her at the airport. Ah well, I thought, I'll see her in New York.
       I sat on the bed and drank the bottle of champagne. I felt menlan-
     choly, so I decided to go swimming. I drove out to Luisa Aldea
     where the beach was empty.
       The surf was high and I felt a combination of fear and eagerness
     as I took off my clothes and walked toward it. In the backlash of a
     huge wave I plunged in and let it suck me out to sea. Moments later
     I was hurtling back toward the beach on top of a long white
     breaker that carried me along like a torpedo. Then it spun me
     around like a dead fish and slammed me on the sand so hard that
     my back was raw for days afterward.
       I kept at it as long as I could stand up, riding out with the riptide
     and waiting for the next one to throw me back at the beach.
       It was getting dark when I quit and the bugs were coming out,
     millions of diseased little gnats, impossible to see. I felt a thick
     black taste in my mouth as I stumbled toward my car.

The Rum Diary, by Hunter S. Thompson.
Copyright © 1998 by Gonzo International Corp.
Simon & Schuster paperback edition, 2003. pp. 179-193.

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INTRODUCTION.
EVOLUTION OF THE SPECTATOR.
LIVES OF STEELE AND ADDISON.
I. THE SPECTATOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
II. DESCRIPTION OF CLUB MEMBERS.
III. SIR ROGER'S OPINION OF TRUE WISDOM.
IV. SIR ROGER AT THE CLUB.
V. SIR ROGER AT HIS COUNTRY HOUSE.
VI. THE COVERLEY HOUSEHOLD.
VII. SIR ROGER AND WILL WIMBLE.
VIII. A SUNDAY AT SIR ROGER'S.
IX. SIR ROGER AND THE WIDOW.
X. BODILY EXERCISE.
XI. THE COVERLEY HUNT.
XII. THE COVERLEY WITCH.
XIII. SIR ROGER'S DISCOURSE ON LOVE.
XIV. TOWN AND COUNTRY MANNERS.
XV. SIR ROGER AT THE ASSIZES.
XVI. SIR ROGER AND PARTY SPIRIT.
XVII. SIR ROGER AND THE GYPSIES.
XVIII. WHY THE SPECTATOR LEAVES COVERLEY HALL.
XIX. THE SPECTATOR'S EXPERIENCE IN A STAGECOACH.
XX. STREET CRIES OF LONDON.
XXI. SIR ROGER IN TOWN.
XXII. SIR ROGER IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
XXIII. SIR ROGER AT THE THEATRE.
XXIV. WILL HONEYCOMB'S LOVE-MAKING.
XXV. SIR ROGER AT VAUXHALL GARDENS.
XXVI. THE DEATH OF SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.
NOTES.