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Show GOT THEIR CLOTHES MIXED. <br><br> Mark Twain, in his new book called "Tramps Abroad," tells how a party of tourists got wet and what they did when they came back to the hotel. We stripped, and went to bed, and sent our clothes down to be baked. All the horde of soaked tourists did the same. That chaos of clothing got mixed in the kitchen, and there were consequences. I did not get back the drawers I sent down, when our things came up at 6:15; I got a pair on a new plan. They were merely a pair of long white ruffled, cuffed sleeves, hitched together at the top with a narrow band, and they did not come quite down to my knees. They were pretty enough but they made me feel like two people, and disconnected at that. The man must have been an idiot that got himself up like that to rough it in the Swiss Mountains. <br><br> The shirt they brought me was shorter than the drawers, and hadn't any sleeves to it - at least it hadn't anything more than what Mr. Darwin would call "rudimentary" sleeves; these had "edging" around them, but the bosom was ridiculously plain. The knit silk undershirt they brought me was on a new plan, and was really a fensible thing; it opened behind, and had pockets in it to put the shoulder blades in; but they did not seem to fit mine, and so I found it a sort of uncomfortable garment. They gave my bobtail coat to somebody else, and sent me an ulster suitable for a giraffe. I had to tie my collar on because there was no button on the foolish little shirt which I described a while ago. |