Warren _killed_ crossing Illinois.

_September 8_: Had no time to write about my reception here in New
York till now.

I've been worrying about poor Tad Warren's wife, bunch of us got
together and made up a purse for her. Nothing more pathetic than these
poor little women that poke down the cocktails to keep excited and
then go to pieces.

I don't believe I was very decent to Tad. Sitting here alone in a
hotel room, it seems twice as lonely after the fuss and feathers these
last few days, a fellow thinks of all the rotten things he ever did.
Poor old Tad. Too late now to cheer him up. Too late. Wonder if they
shouldn't have called off race when he was killed.

Wish Istra wouldn't keep calling me up. Have I _got_ to be rude to
her? I'd like to be decent to her, but I can't stand the cocktail
life. Lord, that time she danced, though.

Poor Tad was [See Transcriber's note.]

Oh hell, to get back to the reception. It was pretty big. Parade of
the Aero Club and Squadron A, me in an open-face hack, feeling like a
boob while sixty leven billion people cheered. Then reception by
mayor, me delivering letter from mayor of Chicago which I had cutely
sneaked out in Chicago and mailed to myself here, N. Y. general
delivery, so I wouldn't lose it on the way. Then biggest dinner I've
ever seen, must have been a thousand there, at the Astor, me very
natty in a new dress suit (hey bo, I fooled them, it was ready-made
and cost me just $37.50 and fitted like my skin.)

Mayor, presidents of boroughs of NY, district attorney, vice president
of U.S., lieut. governor of NY, five or six senators, chief of
ordnance, U.S.A., arctic explorers and hundreds like that, but most of
all Forrest Haviland whom I got them to stick right up near me.
Speeches mostly about me, I nearly rubbed the silver off my flossy new
cigarette case keeping from looking foolish while they were telling
about me and the future of aviation and all them interesting subjects.

Forrest and I sneaked off from the reporters next afternoon, had quiet
dinner down in Chinatown.

We have a bully plan. If we can make it and if he can get leave we
will explore the headwaters of the Amazon with a two-passenger Curtiss
flying boat, maybe next year.

Now the reception fans have done their darndest and all the excitement
is over including the shouting and I'm starting for Newport to hold a
little private meet of my own, backed by Thomas J. Watersell, the
steel magnate, and by