TŌKYŌ, December, 1898.
DEAR McDONALD,--I am very, very sorry that you had that accident,--and
I fear that you are worse off than you let me know. I must get down
to-morrow (Saturday), and see how you are--though I fear I can do no
more than chatter to you like an _usots'ki_. Well, we've both had
accidents lately--my foot isn't quite well yet. We must have extra good
luck to make up for these mishaps.
Yes, I should be glad to know your friend Bedloe,--or any of your naval
friends: they are _men_ as well as gentlemen, and I feel quite at home
with them.
Ah! I had almost forgotten. I _have_ Kipling's "Day's Work" already.
It is great--very great. Don't mistake him, even if he seems too
colloquial at times. He is the greatest living English poet and English
story-teller. Never in this world will I be able to write one page
to compare with a page of his. He makes me feel so small, that after
reading him I wonder why I am such an ass as to write at all. Love to
you, all the same, for thinking of me in that connection.
Term's over--all but a beastly "dinner." D--n dinners! I'll _see_ you
presently.