January 21, 1920
Dearest Archibald,
I hope this letter finds you well, although I sit at my desk, quill in hand, with tears flowing down my face. I hope it’s a rumor. The newest amendment to the great Constitution of our supposedly “free country” has left me with a terrible headache — and an empty decanter. My ability to study, fornicate, and attend my Whig Revivalist Club meetings has been severely limited. My Abbot girl, Agnes, had a bit of a syphilis scare after visiting the Colonies for Thanksgiving, and I packed my last Warzyn G. Harding out of sheer fright. She’s a very independent woman, and knows nearly half the alphabet. Alas, it was but a scare! Perhaps Chauncey or Edward can ride into town and make another purchase. Until then, I’m afraid my mitts will be aflutter with fervent desire. Please, dear Archibald, do wire me when you’re next in town. Perhaps float me a few Zyndenburgs!
Until Our Next Rendezvous,
Silas P. Dillydally
February 3, 1920
Dearest Archibald,
I hope you’ve got wood on the fire and smoked herring in your icebox. I’m afraid my longings have gotten worse. Without my nightly port (a post-homework tradition here at the Academy), I can hardly sleep. In the old days, before this rabble-rousing temperance movement, I’d deplete the decanter in a few swigs and sleep like a baby. Without my luncheon pints, I can hardly sit through Arithmetic 20, much less my Phrenology Seminar.
With the last of my cheer,
Silas P. Dillydally
February 20, 1920
Dearest Archibald,
I hope you’ve got plenty of women and wine down there at Choate. Hooray! I apologize for my unbridled passion, but I’ve simply got to celebrate this latest achievement: my hands no longer shake, my pockets are stuffed and I’ve no longer got that rotten headache. A few friends and I have gotten quite chummy with a few Italians. Sissy-leans, they’re called. (From what I gather, this is the name of people from an awfully impoverished island.) Boy, do they know their way around a brandy distillery! By this, of course, I mean the plugged sink in the maintenance shed by the ball field. Tony and Luigi don’t attend the Academy, of course, but they’re happy to share their stash for a hefty sum. Daddy’s holding company has been doing awfully well (stocks are up, up, up! as they say), but even my supple allowance doesn’t seem to cover the cost. Antony and Luigi are fine fellows, of course, and assure me their interest rates won’t bear negative consequences. Anyway, I thought I’d let you know of this grand resolution. In the meantime, I’m off to the maintenance shed. I urge you to locate some Connecticut Sissy-leans; they’re great fun.
Warmed by great relief and homemade beveragino,
Silas P. Dillydally
March 1, 1920
Archibald,
No time for greetings. It’s gone horribly awry. I’m afraid I’ve fallen in with the wrong crowd. Please wire me some rescue funds. I’ll be staying at the Village Inn until this “blows over,” as they say.
Frightened,
Silas P. Dillydally
Post Script: Cut ties with those Connecticut Sissy-leans as soon as possible.
