I set out to carry a roll of papers to "Professor Cross, 32 Cross St., Brookline." I started not for Brookline apparently, but for South Boston. I came down to the wharves. My roll of paper developed into an iron cylinder and grew to enormous dimensions, say 8 feet in diameter and 100 feet long. Before it became unmanageable, I got it aboard a whaleback steamer and lashed it along the deck. I headed out into the harbor with my huge black pipe. I remember just how the black paint was roughened over the round-headed rivets. Off the New England docks a steamer came up with my craft. She was a beauty--the hull was made of natural wood, brown, oiled, and polished like an Adirondack shell. She must have been 30 feet long, had three masts and was schooner rigged. The stranger came near and someone looked down from her rail at my low-lying vessel and invited me to come aboard and go with them to Bath. "No, I am bound for Winterport," I replied and added, indicating my deck load. "This is a ventilating shaft." I came into a class of a dozen men and two or three women. Mrs. R. ought to have been in charge, but it seemed to be Mrs. F. Ventilation and respiration seemed to be the matters under discussion. Presently we found that the class was to be subjected to an experiment on the effects of expired air. We were to be sealed up in a small room without openings for 12 hours. Our instructor spoke feelingly of the sacrifice we were to make. She showed us a gorgeous lithograph representing three men--heroes of a similar trial. One face I remembered clearly in the morning and I have just now realized that it was Vice President Hobart. We did not seem much awed by the prospect of suffering and perhaps martyrdom, but we were all annoyed at the idea of having to be perfectly idle so long. There was an anxious search for a pack of cards. We were crowded into the airtight room -- and I awoke just as the postman rang the bell.