"You boys look so cute in your funny white uniforms," a girl said to me the other day. "It must be so jolly wearing them."

I didn't strike her, for she was easily ten pounds heavier than I was, but I made it easily apparent that our relations would never progress further than the weather vane. I used to affect white pajamas, the same seeming to harmonize with the natural purity of my nature, but after the war I fear I shall be forced to discontinue the practise in favor of more lurid attire. However, I still believe that a bachelor should never wear anything other than white pajamas or at the most lavender, but this of course is merely a personal opinion.

June 14th. I have been hard put to-day. The Lord only knows what trials and tribulations will be visited upon me next. At present I am quite unnerved. To-day I was initiated into all the horrifying secrets and possibilities of the bayonet, European style. Never do I remember spending a more unpleasant half an hour. The instructor was a resourceful man possessed of a most vivid imagination. Before he had finished with us potential delicatessen dealers were lying around as thick as flies. We were brushing them off.

After several hair-raising exhibitions he formed us into two lines facing each other and told us to begin.

"Now lunge," he said, "and look as if you meant business."

I glanced ingratiatingly across at my adversary. He was simply glaring at me. Never have I seen an expression of greater ferocity. It was too much. I knew for certain that if he ever lunged at me I'd never live to draw another yellow slip.

"Mister Officer," I gasped, pointing across at this blood-thirsty man, "don't you think that he's just a little too close? I'm afraid I might hurt him by accident."

The officer surveyed the situation with a swift, practical eye.

"Oh, I guess he can take care of himself all right," he replied. That was just what I feared.

The man smiled grimly.

"But does he know that this is only practise?" I continued. "He certainly doesn't look as if he did."

"That's the way you should look," said the officer, "work your own face up a bit. This isn't a vampire scene. Don't look as if you were going to lure him. Y'know you're supposed to be angry with your opponent when you meet him in battle, quite put out in fact. And furthermore you're supposed to look it."

I regarded my opponent, but only terror was written on my face. Then suddenly we lunged and either through fear or mismanagement I succeeded only in running my bayonet deep into the ground. In some strange manner the butt of the gun jabbed me in the stomach and I was completely winded. My opponent was dancing and darting around me like a local but thorough-going lightning storm. I abandoned my gun and stood sideways, thus decreasing the possible area of danger. Had the exercises continued much longer I would have had a spell of something, probably the blind staggers.



"You're not pole vaulting," said the instructor to me, as he returned the gun. "In a real show you'd have looked like a pin cushion by this time." I felt like one.

Then it all started over again and this time I thought I was doing a little better, when quite unexpectedly the instructor shouted at me.

"Stop prancing around in that silly manner," he cried, "you're not doing a sword dance, sonny."

"He thinks he's still a show girl," some one chuckled, "he's that seductive."

Mess gear interrupted our happy morning. The sight of a knife fairly sickened me.

June 24th. Last week I caught a liberty—a perfect Forty-three—and went to spend it with some cliff dwelling friends of mine who, heaven help their wretched lot! lived on the sixth and top floor of one of those famous New York struggle-ups. Before shoving off there was some slight misunderstanding between the inspecting officer and myself relative to the exact color of my, broadly speaking, Whites.

"Fall out, there," he said to me. "You can't go out on liberty in Blues."

"But these, sir," I responded huskily, "are not Blues; they're Whites."

"Look like Blues to me," he said skeptically. "Fall out anyway. You're too dirty."

For the first time in my life I said nothing at the right time. I just looked at him. There was a dumb misery in my eyes, a mute, humble appeal such as is practised with so much success by dogs. He couldn't resist it. Probably he was thinking of the days when he, too, stood in line waiting impatiently for the final formalities to be run through before the world was his again.

"Turn around," he said brokenly. I did so.

"Fall in," he ordered, after having made a prolonged inspection of my shrinking back. "I guess you'll do, but you are only getting through on a technicality—there's one white spot under your collar."

Officers are people after all, although sometimes it's hard to realize it. This one, in imagination, I anointed with oil and rare perfumes, and costly gifts I laid at his feet, while in a glad voice I called down the blessings of John Paul Jones upon his excellent head. Thus I departed with my kind and never did the odor of gasoline smell sweeter in my nose than did the fumes that were being emitted by the impatient flivver that waited without the gate. And sweet, too, was the fetid atmosphere of the subway after the clean, bracing air of Pelham, sweet was the smell of garlic belonging to a mustache that sat beside me, and sweet were the buttery fingers of a small child who kept clawing at me while their owner demanded of the whole car if I was a "weal mavy sailor boy?" I didn't look it, and I didn't feel it, but I had forty-three hours of freedom ahead of me, so what did I care?

All went well with me until I essayed the six flight climb-up to the cave of these cliff-dwelling people, when I found that the one-storied existence I had been leading in the Pelham bungalows had completely unfitted me for mountain climbing. As I toiled upward I wondered dimly how these people ever managed to keep so fat after having mounted to such a great distance for so long a time. Somehow they had done it, not only maintained their already acquired fat but added greatly thereto. There would be no refreshing cup to quaff upon arriving, only water, or at best milk. This I knew and the knowledge added pounds to my already heavy feet.

"My, what a dirty sailor you are, to be sure," they said to me from the depth of their plump complacency.

"Quite so," I gasped, falling into a chair, "I seem to remember having heard the same thing once before to-day."

June 25th. Neither Saturday nor Sunday was a complete success and for a while Saturday afternoon assumed the proportions of a disaster. After having rested from my climb, I decided to wash my Whites so that I wouldn't be arrested as a deserter or be thrown into the brig upon checking in. The fat people on learning of my intentions decided that the sight of such labor would tire them beyond endurance, so they departed, leaving me in solitary possession of their flat. I thereupon removed my jumper, humped my back over the tub, scrubbed industriously until the garment was white, then hastened roofwards and arranged it prettily on the line. This accomplished, I hurried down, removed my trousers, rehumped my back over the tub, scrubbed industriously until the trousers in turn were white and once more dashed roofwards. I have always been absent minded, but never to such an appalling extent as to appear clad only in my scanty underwear in the midst of a mixed throng of ladies, gentlemen and children. This I did. Some venturous souls had claimed the roof as their own during my absence so that when I sprang from the final step to claim my place in the sun I found myself by no means alone. With a cry of horror I leaped to the other side of the clothes-line and endeavored to conceal myself behind an old lady's petticoat or a lady's old petticoat or something of that nature. Whoever wore the thing must have been a very short person indeed, for the garment reached scarcely down to my knees, below which my B.V.D.'s fluttered in an intriguing manner.

"Sir," thundered a pompous gentleman, "have you any explanation for your surprising conduct?"

"Several," I replied briskly from behind my only claim on respectability. "In the first place, I didn't expect an audience. In the second—"

"That will do, sir," broke in this heavy person in a quarterdeck voice. "Who, may I ask, are you?"

"You may," I replied. "I'm a God-fearing sailor man who is doing the best he can to keep nice and clean in spite of the uncalled for intervention of a red-faced oaf of a plumber person who should know better than to stand around watching him."



"Don't take on so, George," said one of the women whom I suspected of edging around in order to get a better view of me, "the poor young man is a sailor—where is your patriotism?"

"Yes," broke in the other woman, edging around on the other side, "he's one of our sailor boys. Treat him nice."

"Patriotic, I am," roared George wrathfully, "but not to the extent of condoning and looking lightly upon such a flagrant breach of decency as this semi-nude, so-called sailor has committed in our midst."

"If you'd give me a couple of Thrift Stamps," I suggested, "I might be able to come out from behind this blooming barrage."

"Shameless," exploded the man.

"Not at all," I replied, "in the olden days it was quite customary for young gentlemen and elderly stout ones like yourself, for instance, to drop in at the best caves with very much less on than I have without any one considering their conduct in any degree irregular. In fact, the ladies of this time were no better themselves, it being deemed highly proper for them to appear in some small bit of stuff and nobody thought the worst of it at all. Take the early days of the fifteenth century B.C.—"

At this point in my eloquent address a young child, who had hitherto escaped my attention, took it upon herself to swing on the line with the result that it parted with a snap and my last vestige of protection came fluttering to the roof. For one tense moment I stood gazing into the dilated eyes of those before me. Then with surprising presence of mind, I sprang to a ladder that led to the water tank, swarmed up it with the agility of a cat and lowered myself with a gasp of despair into the cold, cold water of the tank. From this place of security I gazed down on the man who had been responsible for my unfortunate plight. I felt myself sinned against, and the longer I remained in that water, up to my neck, the more I felt my wrongs. I gave voice to them. I said bitter, abusive things to the man.

"Clear the quarter deck," I shouted, "get aft, or, by gad, I'll come fluttering down there on your flat, bald head like a blooming flood. Vamoos, hombre, pronto—plenty quick and take your brood with you." Then I said some more things as my father before me had said them, and the man withdrew with his women.

"He's a sailor," he said as he did so. "Hurry, my dears, this is worse than nakedness."

I emerged and sat in a borrowed bathrobe the rest of the evening. The next morning my clothes were still damp. Now, that's what I call a stupid way to spend a Saturday night on liberty. The fat people enjoyed it.

June 29th. I met a very pleasant dog yesterday, whom I called Mr. Fogerty because of his sober countenance and the benign but rather puzzled expression in his large, limpid eyes, which were almost completely hidden by his bangs. He was evidently a visitor in camp, so I took him around and introduced him to the rest of the dogs and several of the better sort of goats. In all of these he displayed a friendly but dignified interest, seeming to question them on the life of the camp, how they liked the Navy and what they thought were the prospects for an early peace. He refused to be separated from me, however, and even broke into the mess hall, from which he was unceremoniously ejected, but not before he had gotten half of my ration. In some strange manner he must have found out from one of the other dogs my name and address and exactly where I swung, for in the middle of the night I awoke to hear a lonesome whining in the darkness beneath my hammock and then the sniff, sniff of an investigating nose. As I know how it feels to be lonely in a big black barracks in the dead of night I carefully descended to the deck and collected this animal—it was my old friend, Mr. Fogerty, and he was quite overjoyed at having once more found me. After licking my face in gratitude he sat back on his haunches and waited for me to do something amusing. I didn't have the heart to leave him there in the darkness. Dogs have a certain way about them that gets me every time. I lifted Mr. Fogerty, a huge hulk of a dog, with much care, and adjusting of overlapping paws into my hammock, and received a kiss in the eye for my trouble. Then I followed Mr. Fogerty into the hammock and resumed my slumber, but not with much comfort. Mr. Fogerty is a large, sprawly dog, who evidently has been used to sleeping in vast spaces and who sees no reason for changing a lifelong habit. Consequently he considered me in the nature of a piece of gratifying upholstery. He slept with his hind legs on my stomach and his front paws propped against my chin. When he scratched, as he not infrequently did, what I decided must be a flea, his hind leg beat upon the canvas and produced a noise not unlike a drum. Thus we slept, but through some miscalculation I must have slept over, for it seems that the Master-at-arms, a very large and capable Irishman, came and shook my hammock.



"Hit the deck there, sailor," he said, "shake a leg, shake a leg."

At this point Mr. Fogerty took it upon himself to peer over the side of the hammock to see who this disturber of peace and quiet could be. This was just a little out of the line of duty for the jimmy legs, and I can't say as I blame him for his conduct under rather trying circumstances. Mr. Fogerty has a large, shaggy head, not unlike a lion's, and his mouth, too, is quite large and contains some very long and sharp teeth. It seems that Mr. Fogerty, still heavy with slumber, quite naturally yawned into the horrified face of the Jimmy-legs, who, mistaking the operation for a hostile demonstration, retreated from the barracks with admirable rapidity for one so large, crying in a distracted voice as he did so:

"By the saints, it's a beast he's turned into during the night. Sure, it's a visitation of Providence, heaven preserve us."

It seems I have been washing hammocks ever since. Mr. Fogerty sits around and wonders what it's all about. I like Fogerty, but he gets me in trouble, and in this I need no help whatsoever.



July 1st. This day I almost succeeded in sinking myself for the final count. The fishes around about the environs of City Island were disappointed beyond words when I came up for the fourth time and stayed up. In my delirium I imagined that school had been let out in honor of my reception and that all the pretty little fishes were sticking around in expectant groups cheering loudly at the thought of the conclusion of their meatless days. Fortunately for the Navy, however, I cheated them and saved myself in order to scrub many more hammocks and white clothes, an object to which I seem to have dedicated my life.

It all come about, as do most drowning parties, in quite an unexpected manner. For some reason it had been arranged that I should take a swim over at one of the emporiums at City Island, and, as I interposed no objections, I accordingly departed with my faithful Mr. Fogerty tumbling along at my heels. Since Mr. Fogerty involved me in trouble the other day by barking at the Jimmy-legs he has endeavored in all possible ways to make up for his thoughtless irregularity. For instance, he met me this morning with an almost brand new shoe which in some manner he had managed to pick up in his wanderings. It fits perfectly, and if he only succeeds in finding the mate to it I shall probably not look for the owner. As a further proof of his good will Mr. Fogerty bit, or attempted to bite, a P.O. who spoke to me roughly regarding the picturesque way I was holding my gun.

"Whose dog is that?" demanded the P.O.

Silence in the ranks. Mr. Fogerty looked defiantly at him for a moment and then trotted deliberately over and sat down upon my foot.

"Oh, so he belongs to you!" continued the P.O. in a threatening voice.

"No, sir," I faltered; "you see, it isn't that way at all. I belong to Mr. Fogerty."

"Who in—who in—who is Mr. Fogerty?" shouted the P.O. "And how in—how in—how did he happen to get into the conversation?"

"Why, this is Mr. Fogerty," I replied; "this dog here, sitting on my foot."

"Oh, is that so?" jeered the P.O., a man noted for his quick retorts. "Well, you take your silly looking dog away from here and secure him in some safe place. He ain't no fit associate for our camp dogs. And, furthermore," he added, "the next time Mr. Fogerty attempts to bite me I'm going to put you on report—savez?"

Mr. Fogerty is almost as much of a comfort in camp as mother.

Well, that's another something else again and has nothing to do with my swim and approximate drowning at City Island. Swimming has always been one of my strong points, and I have taken in the past no little pride in my appearance, not only in a bathing outfit, but also in the water. However, the suit they provided me with on this occasion did not show me up in a very alluring light. It was quite large and evidently built according to a model of the early Victorian Era. I was swathed in yards of cloth much in the same manner as is a very young child. It delighted Mr. Fogerty, who expressed his admiration by attaching himself to the lower half of my attire and remaining there until I had waded through several colonies of barnacles far out into the bay. Bidding farewell to Mr. Fogerty at this point, I gave myself over to the joy of the moment and went wallowing along, giving a surprising imitation of the famous Australian crawl. Far in the distance I sighted an island, to which I decided to swim. This was a very poor decision, indeed, because long before I had reached the spot I was in a sinking condition owing to the great heaviness of my suit and a tremendous slacking down of lung power. It was too late to retreat to the shore; the island was the nearest point, and that wasn't near. On I gasped, my mind teeming with cheerless thoughts of the ocean's bed waiting to receive me. Just as I was about to shake hands with myself for the last time I cleared the water from my eyes and discovered that the island though still distant was not altogether impossible. Therewith I discarded the top part of my suit and struck out once more. The island was now almost within my grasp. Life seemed to be not such a lost cause after all. Then suddenly, quite clearly, just as I was about to pull myself up on the shore, I saw a woman standing on the bank and heard her shouting in a very conventional voice:

"Private property! Private property!"

I sank. This was too much. As I came up for the first count, and just before I sank back beneath the blue, I had time to hear her repeat:

"Private property! Please keep off!"

I went down very quickly this time and very far. When I arose I saw as though in a dream another woman standing by the first one and seemingly arguing with her.

"He's drowning!" she said.

"I'm sure I can't help that!" the other one answered. And then in a loud, imperious voice:

"Private property! No visitors allowed!"

The water closed over my head and stilled her hateful voice.

"No," she was saying as I came up for the third time; "I can't do it. If I make an exception of one I must make an exception of all."

Although I hated to be rude about it, having always disliked forcing myself upon people, I decided on my fourth trip down that unless I wanted to be a dead sailor I had better be taking steps. It was almost too late. There wasn't enough wind left in me to fatten a small sized bubble.

"There he is again!" she cried in a petulant voice as I once more appeared. "Why doesn't he go away?"

"He's just about to—for good!" said the other lady. With a pitiful yap I struck out feebly in the general direction of the shore. It wouldn't work. My arms refused to move. Then quite suddenly and deliriously I felt two soft, cool arms enfold me, and my head sank back on a delicately unholstered shoulder. Somehow it reminded me of the old days.

"Home, James," I murmured, as I was slowly towed to shore. Just before closing my eyes I caught a fleeting glimpse of a young lady clad in one of the one-piecest one-piece bathing suits I had ever seen. She was bending over me sympathetically.

"Private property!" cried my tormentor, shaking a finger at me. "What a pity!" I thought as I closed my eyes and drifted off into sweet dreams in which Mr. Fogerty, my beautiful rescuer, and myself were dancing hand-and-hand on the parade ground to the music of the massed band, much to the edification of the entire station assembled in review formation.

Presently I awoke to the hateful strains of this old hard-shell's voice:

"See what you've done!" she was saying to the young girl. "You've brought in a half naked man, and now that he has seen you in a much worse condition than he is, we'll have ten thousand sailors swimming out to this island in one continuous swarm."

"Oh, won't that be fun!" cried the girl. And from that time on, in spite of the objections of her mother, we were fast friends.

When I returned to shore it was in a rowboat with this fair young creature. The faithful Fogerty was waiting on the beach for me, where, it later developed, he had been sleeping quite comfortably on an unknown woman's high powered sport hat, as is only reasonable.

July 2nd. Mother got in again. There seems to be no practical way of keeping her out. This time she came breezing in with a friend from East Aurora, a large, elderly woman of about one hundred and ten summers and an equal number of very hard winters. The first thing mother said was to the effect that she was going to see what she could do about getting me a rating. She did. The very first officer she saw she sailed up to and buttonholed much to my horror.

"Why can't my boy Oswald have a pretty little eagle on his arm, such as I see so many of the young men up here wearing about the camp?"

The abruptness of this question left the officer momentarily stunned, but I will say for him that he rallied quickly and returned a remarkably diplomatic reply to the effect that the pretty little eagle, although pleasing to gaze upon, was not primarily intended to be so much of a decoration as means of identification, and that certain small qualifications were required, as a rule, before one was permitted to wear one of the emblems in question; qualifications, he hastened to add, which he had not the slightest doubt that I failed to possess if I was the true son of my mother, but which, owing to fate and circumstances, I had probably been unable to exercise. Whereupon he bid her a very courteous good-day, returned my salute, and passed on, but not before the very old lady accompanying my mother saluted also, raising her hand to her funny bit of a bonnet with unnecessary snappiness and snickering in a senile manner. This last episode upset me completely, but the old lady was irrepressible. From that time on she punctuated her progress through the camp with exaggerated salutes to all the officers she encountered on the way. This, of course, was quite a startling and undignified performance for one of her years, very embarrassing to me, as well as mystifying to the officers, who hardly knew whether to hurl me into the brig as vicarious atonement or to rebuke the flighty old creature, on the grounds of undue levity. Most of them passed by, however, with averted eyes and a discountenanced expression, feeling, I am sure, that I had put her up to it. Mother thought it quite amusing, and enjoyed my discomfiture hugely. Then for no particular reason she began to garnish her conversation with inappropriate seagoing expressions, such as "Pipe down," "Hit the deck," "Avast," and "Hello, Buddy!" Where she ever picked up all this nonsense I am at a loss to discover, but she continued to pull it to the bitter end.

"Hello, Buddy!" was the way she greeted the Jimmy-legs of my barracks after I had introduced her to him with much elaboration. This completely floored the poor lad, and rendered him inarticulate. He thinks now that I come from either a family of thugs or maniacs, probably the latter. I succeeded in shaking the old thing for a while, and when I next found her she was demonstrating the proper method of washing whites to a group of sailors assembled in the wash room of one of our most popular latrines. She was heading in the direction of the shower baths when I finally rounded her up. She was a game old lady. I'll have to hand her that. Her wildest escapade was reserved for the end of her visit, when I took her over to the K. of C. hut, and she challenged any sailor present to a game of pool for a quarter a ball. When we told her that the sailors in the Navy never gambled she said that she was completely off the service, and that she thought it was high time that we learned to do something useful instead of singing sentimental songs and weaving ourselves into intricate figures. This remark forced us to it, and much against our wills we proceeded to show the old lady up at pool. She had been bluffing all along, and when it came to a showdown we found that she couldn't shoot for shucks. When the news spread around the hut the sailors crowded about her thick as thieves, challenging her to play. She was a wild, unregenerated old lady, but she was by no means an easy mark, as it later developed when she matched them for the winnings, got it all back, and I am told by some sailors that she even left the hut a little ahead of the game. I don't object to notoriety, but there are numerous ways of winning it that are objectionable, and this old lady was one. Mother must have been giddier in her youth than I ever imagined.

July 3d. Yesterday I lost my dog Fogerty and didn't find him until late in the afternoon. He was up in front of the First Regiment, mustered in with the liberty party. When he discovered my presence he looked coldly at me, as if he had never seen me before, so I knew that he had a date. He just sat there and shook his bangs over his eyes and tried to appear as if he were somewhere else. When the order come to shove off he joined the party and trotted off without even looking back, and that was the last I saw of him until this morning, when he came drifting in, rather unsteadily, and regarded me with a shifty but insulting eye. I am rapidly discovering hitherto unsuspected depths of depravity in Mr. Fogerty, which leads me to believe that he is almost human.

July 4th. This has been the doggonest Fourth of July I ever spent, and as a result I am in much trouble. All day long I have been grooming myself to look spic and span at the review held in honor of the Secretary when he opened the new wing to the camp. I missed it. I lost completely something in the neighborhood of ten thousand men. It seems hard to do, but the fact, the ghastly fact, remains that I did it. When I dashed out of the barracks with my newly washed, splendidly seagoing, still damp white hat in my hand my company was gone, and the whole camp seemed deserted. Far in the distance I heard the music of the band. Fogerty looked inquiringly at me and I fled. He fled after me.



"Fogerty," I gasped, "this is a trick I have to pull off alone. You're not in on this review, and for God's sake act reasonable."

I couldn't bear the thought of chasing across the parade ground with that simple-looking dog bounding along at my heels. My remark had no effect. Fogerty merely threw himself into high, and together we sped in the direction of the music. It was too late. Thousands of men were swinging past in review, and in all that mass of humanity there was one small vacant place that I was supposed to fill. I crouched down behind a tree and observed the scene through stricken eyes. How could I possibly have managed to lose nearly ten thousand men? It seemed incredible, and I realized then that I alone could have accomplished such a feat. And I had been so nice and clean, too, and I had worked so hard to be all of those things. I bowed my head in misery, and Mr. Fogerty, God bless his dissolute soul, crept up to me and tried to tell me it was all right, and didn't matter much anyway. I looked down, and discovered that my snow white hat was all muddy. Fogerty sat on it.

July 8th. As a result of my being scratched out of the Independence day review I have been tried out as punishment in all sorts of disagreeable positions, all of which I have filled with an inefficiency only equaled by the bad temper of my over-lords. Some of these tasks, one in particular was of such a ridiculous nature that I refuse to enter it into my diary for an unfeeling posterity to jeer at. I am willing to state, however, that the accomplishments of Hercules, that redoubtable handy man of mythology, were trifling in comparison with mine.

To begin with, the coal pile is altogether too large and my back is altogether too refined. There should be individual coal piles provided for temperamental sailors. Small, colorful, appetizingly shaped mounds of nice, clean, glistening chunks of coal they should be, and the coal itself could easily be made much lighter, approaching if possible the weight of feathers. This would be a task any reasonably inclined sailor would attack with relish, particularly if his efforts were attended by the strains of some good, snappy jazz. However, reality wears a graver face and a sootier one. Long did I labor and valiantly but to little effect. More coal fell off of my shovel than remained on it. This was due to the unfortunate fact that coal dust seems to affect me most unpleasantly, much in the same manner as daisies or golden rod affect hay fever sufferers. The result was that every time I had my shovel poised in readiness to hurl its burden into space a monolithic sneeze overpowered me, shook me to the keel, and all the coal that I had trapped with so much patience and cunning fell miserably around my feet, from whence it had lately risen. Little things like this become most discouraging when strung out for a great period of time. In this manner I sneezed and sweated throughout the course of a sweltering afternoon, and just as I was about to call it a day along comes an evilly inclined coal wagon and dumps practically in my lap one hundred times more coal than I had disturbed in the entire course of my labors. On top of this Fogerty, who had been loafing around all day with his tongue out disporting himself on the coal pile like a dog in the first snow, started a landslide somewhere above and came bearing down on me in a cloud of dust. I found myself buried beneath the delighted Fogerty and a couple of tons of coal, from which I emerged unbeamingly, but not before Mr. Fogerty had addressed his tongue to my blackened face as an expression of high good humor.



"Take me to the brig," I said, walking over to the P.O., "I'm through. You can put a service flag on that coal pile for me."

"What's consuming you, buddy?" asked the P.O. in not an unkindly voice.

"Take me to the brig," I repeated, "it's too much. Here I've been working diligently all day to reduce the size of this huge mass, when up comes that old wagon and humps its back and belches forth its horrid contents all over the place. It's ridiculous. I surrender my shovel."

"Gord," breathed the P.O., looking at me pityingly, "we don't want to go and reduce that coal pile, we want to enlarge it."

"Oh!" I replied, stunned, "I didn't quite understand. I thought you wanted to make it smaller, so I've been trying to shovel it away all afternoon."

"You shouldn't oughter have done that," replied the P.O. as if he were talking to an idiot, "I suppose you've been shoveling her down hill all day?"

I admitted that I had.

"You see," I added engagingly, "I began with trying to shovel her up hill, but the old stuff kept on rolling down on me, so I drew the natural conclusion that I'd better shovel her down hill. It seemed more reasonable and—"

"Easier," suggested the P.O.

"Yes," I agreed.

There was a faraway expression in his eyes when he next spoke. "I'd recommend you for an ineptitude discharge," he said, "if it wasn't for the fact that I have more consideration for the civilian population. I'd gladly put you in the brig for life if I could feel sure you wouldn't injure it in some way. The only thing left for me to do is to make you promise that you'll keep away from our coal pile and swear never to lay violent hands on it again. You'll spoil it."

I gazed up at the monumental mass of coal rearing itself like a dark-town Matterhorn above my head and swore fervently never to molest it again.

"Go back to your outfit and get washed and tell your P.O. for me that you can't come here no more, and," he added, as I was about to depart, "take that unusual looking bit of animal life with you—it's all wrong. Police his body or he'll ruin some of your pals' white pants and they wouldn't like that at all."

I feared they wouldn't.

"Yes, sir," I replied in a crumpled voice, "Much obliged, sir."

"Please go away now," he said quietly, "or I think I might do you an injury." He was fingering the shovel nervously as he spoke. Thus Fogerty and I departed, banished even from our dusky St. Helena.

July 9th. Working on the theory of opposites, I was next placed as a waiter in the Chief Petty Officer's Mess over in the First Regiment. I wasn't so good here, it seems. There was something wrong with my technique. The coal pile had ruined me for delicate work. I continually kept mistaking the plate in my hand for a shovel, a mistake which led to disastrous results. I will say this for the chiefs, however—they were as clean-cut, hard-eating a body of men as I have ever met. It was a pleasure to feed them, particularly so in the case of one chief, a venerable gentleman, who seemed both by his bearing and the number of stripes on his sleeve to be the dean of the mess. He ate quietly, composedly and to the point, and after I had spilled a couple of plates of rations on several of the other chiefs' laps he suggested that I call it a day and be withdrawn in favor of one whose services to his country were not so invaluable as mine. Appreciating his delicacy I withdrew, but only to be sent out on another job that defies description. Even here I quickly demonstrated my unfitness and have consequently been incorporated once more into the body of my regiment.

July 10th. I had the most terrible experience in mess to-day when a guy having eaten more rapidly than I attempted to take my ration. When I told him he shouldn't do it he merely laughed brutally and kicked me an awful whack on the shin. This injury, together with the sight of witnessing my food about to be crammed down his predatory maw, succeeded in bringing all my latent patriotism to the fore and I fell upon him with a desperation bred of hunger. We proceeded to mill it up in a rather futile, childish manner until the Master-at-arms suggested in a certain way he has that we go away to somewhere else. Hereafter if any one asks if I did any actual fighting in this war I am going to say, "Yes, I fought like hell many hard and long battles in camp for my ration," which will be true.

"Say, buddy," said my opponent, after we had landed quite violently on the exterior of the Mess Hall, "you didn't git no food at all, did yer?"

"No," I replied bitterly; "at all is right."

He looked at me for a moment in a strange, studying manner, then began laughing softly to himself.

"I don't know what made me do it," he said more to himself than to me. "I wasn't hungry no more. I didn't really want it. I wonder what makes a guy brutal? Guess he sort of has a feelin' to experiment with himself and other folks."

"I wish you'd tried that experiment on some one else," I replied, thinking tenderly of my shin.

"Sometimes I feel so doggon strong and mean," he continued, "I just can't keep from doing things I don't naturally feel like doing. I guess I'm sort of an animal."

"Say," I asked him in surprise, "if you keep talking about yourself that way I won't be able to call you all the names I am carefully preparing at this moment."

He peered earnestly down on me for a space.

"Does my face make you talk that way?" I asked, feeling dimly and uncomfortably that it did.

"Yes," he replied, "it's your face, your foolish looking face. I can't help feeling sorry for it and your funny empty little belly."

"You're breaking me down," I answered; "I can't stand kindness."

"I ain't no bully," he said fiercely, as if he was about to strike me. "I ain't no bully," he repeated, "I'll tell you that."

"No, sir," I replied soothingly, keeping on the alert, "you ain't no bully."

Here he took me by the arm and dragged me along with him.

"Come on, buddy," he said, "I'm going to take you to the canteen and feed you. I'm going to do it, I swear to God."

So he fed me. Stacks and stacks of stuff he forced on me until the flesh rebelled, after which he put things in my pockets, repeating every little while, "I ain't no bully, I'll tell you that, I ain't no bully." He spent most of his money, I reckon, but I did not try to stop him. He wanted to do it and I guess it made him feel better. After the orgy I took him around and let him pat Mr. Fogerty. He seemed to like this. Fogerty took it in good part.

July 11th. There's something about Wednesday afternoons that doesn't appeal to me. First they make you go away and dress yourself up nice and clean and then they look you over and make you feel nearly as childish as you look. Then they put a gun into your hand that is much too heavy for comfort and make you do all sorts of ridiculous things with this gun, after which you fall in with numerous thousands of other men who have been subjected to the same treatment, and together we all go trotting past any number of officers, who look you over with uncanny earnestness through eyes that seem to perceive the remotest defect with fiendish accuracy. Then we all trot home again and call it a review.

This is all very well for some people, but not for me. I'm a little too self-conscious. I have always the feeling that I am the review, that it has been staged particularly for my discomforture, and that every officer in camp is on the lookout for any slight irregularity in my clothes or conduct. In this they have little difficulty. I assist them greatly myself. To-day, for instance:

Item one: Dropped my gun.

Item two: Talked in ranks. I asked the guy next to me how he would like to go to a place and he said that he'd see me there first.

Item three: Failed to follow the guide.

Item four: Didn't mark time correctly.

Item five: Was in step once.

Now all of these things are trifling in themselves, but taken en mass, as it were, it leads up to a sizable display; at least, so I was told in words that denied any other interpretation by my P.O. and several pals of his. After the review our regimental commander lined us up and addressed us as follows:

"About that review to-day," he began, "it was terrible" (long, dramatic pause). "It was probably the worst review I have ever seen (several P.O.'s glanced at me reproachfully), not only that," he continued, "but it was the worst review that anybody has ever seen. Anybody! (shouted) without exception! (shouted) awful review! (pause) Terrible!"

We steadied in the ranks and waited for our doom.

"It will never be so again," he continued, "I'll see to that. I'll drill ye myself. If you have to get up at four o'clock in the morning to drill in order to meet your classes, I'll see that ye do it. Dropping guns! (pause). Talking in ranks! (pause). Out-o-step (terrible pause). Marking time wrong. Everything wrong! Company commanders, take 'em away."

We were took.

"All of those things," said my P.O. in a trembling voice, "you did. All of 'em. Now the old man's sore on us and he's going to give us hell, and I'm going to do the same by you."

"Shoot, dearie," says I, with the desperate indifference of a man who has nothing left to lose, "I wouldn't feel natural if you didn't."

And in my hammock that night I thought of another thing I might have said if it had occurred to me in time. I might have said, "Hell is the only thing you know how to give and you're generous with that because it's free."

But I guess after all it's just as well I didn't.

August 1st. Mr. Fogerty has returned aboard. My worst fears are realized. For a long time he has been irritable and uncommunicative with me and has indulged in sly, furtive little tricks unbecoming to a dog of the service. I have suspected that he was concealing a love affair from me. This it appears he has been doing and his guilt is heavy upon him. I realize now for the first time and not without a sharp maternal pang that he has reached an age at which he must make decisions for himself. I can no longer follow him out into the world upon his nocturnal exploits. His entire confidence is not mine. I must be content to share a part of his heart instead of the whole of it. Like father like son, I suppose. However, I see no reason for him to put on such airs. On his return from City Island this time he had somehow contrived to get himself completely shaved up to the shoulders. The result is startling. Fogerty looks extremely aristocratic but a trifle foppish. However, he seems to consider himself the only real four-footed dog in camp. This is a trifle boring from a dog who has never hesitated to steal from the galley anything that wasn't a permanent fixture. I can't help but feel sorry for him though when I see that far-away look in his eyes. Sad days I fear are in store for him. Ah, well, we're only young once.

August 3d. "Well, now, son," he was saying, "mind me when I tell yer that I'm not claiming as to ever have seen a mermaid, but what I am saying is this and that is if anybody has ever seen one of them things I'm that man. I'm not making no false claims, however, none whatsoever."

I carefully placed my shovel against the wheelbarrow and seating myself upon a stump prepared to listen to my companion. He was a chief of many cruises and for some unaccountable reason had fixed on me as being a suitable recipient for his discourse. One more hash mark on his arm would have made him look like a convict. I listened and in the meanwhile many mounds of sand urgently in need of shoveling remained undisturbed. Upon this sand I occasionally cast a reflective and apprehensive eye. The chief, noticing this, nudged me in the ribs with an angular elbow.

"Don't mind that, sonny," he said, "I'll pump the fear-o'-God into the heart of any P.O. what endeavors to disturb you. Trust me."

I did.

"Now getting back to this mermaid," he began in a confidential voice, "what I say as I didn't claim to have saw. It happened this way and what I'm telling you, sonny, is the plain, unvarnished facts of the case, take 'em or leave 'em as you will. They happened and I'm here to tell the whole world so."

"I have every confidence in you, chief," I replied mildly.

"It is well you have," he growled, scanning my face suspiciously. "It's well you have, you louse."

"Why, chief," I exclaimed in an aggrieved voice, "isn't that rather an unappetizing word to apply to a fellow creature?"

"Mayhap, young feller," he replied, "mayhap. I ain't no deep sea dictionary diver, I ain't, but all this has got nothing to do with what I was about to tell you. It all happened after this manner, neither no more nor no less."

He cleared his throat and gazed with undisguised hostility across the parade ground. Thus he began:

"It was during the summer of 1888, some thirty odd years ago," quoth he. "I was a bit young then, but never such a whey face as you, certainly not."

"Positively," said I, in hearty agreement.

"At that time," he continued, not noticing my remark, "I was resting easy on a soft job between cruises as night watchman on one of them P.O. docks at Dover. The work warn't hard, but it was hard enough. I would never have taken it had it not been for the unpleasant fact that owing to some little trouble I had gotten into at one of the pubs my wife was in one of her nasty, brow-beating moods. At these times the solitude and the stars together with the grateful companionship of a couple of buckets of beer was greatly to be preferred to my little old home. So I took the job and accordingly spent my nights sitting with my back to a pile, my legs comfortably stretched out along the rim of the dock and a bucket of beer within easy reach."

"Could anything be fairer than that?" said I.

"Nothing," said he, and continued. "Well, one night as I was sitting there looking down in the water as a man does when his mind is empty and his body well disposed, I found myself gazing down into two glowing pools that weren't the reflections of stars. Above these two flecks of light was perched a battered old leghorn hat after the style affected in the music halls of those days. Floating out back of this hat on the water was a long wavery coil of filmy hair, the face was shaded, but two long slim arms were thrust out of the water toward me, and following these arms down a bit I was shocked and surprised to find that further than the hat the young lady below me was apparently innocent of garments. Now I believe in going out with the boys when the occasion demands and making a bit of a time of it, but my folks have always been good, honest church people and believers in good, strong, modest clothing and plenty of 'em. I have always followed their example."

"Reluctantly and at a great distance," said I.

"Not at all," said he and continued. "So when I sees the condition the young lady was in I was naturally very much put out and I didn't hesitate telling her so.

"'Go home,' says I, 'and put your clothes on. You ought to be ashamed of yourself—a great big girl like you.'

"'Aw, pipe down, old grizzle face,' says she; 'wot have you got in the bucket?' And if you will believe me she began raising herself out of the water. 'Give me some,' says she.

"'Stop,' I cries out exasperated; 'stop where you are; you've gone far enough. For shame.'

"'I'll come all the way out,' says she, laughing, 'unless you give me some of wot you got in that bucket.'

"'Shame,' I repeated, 'ain't you got no sense of decency?'

"'None wot so ever,' she replied, 'but I'm awfully thirsty. Gimme a drink or out I'll come.'

"Now you can see for yourself that I couldn't afford to have a woman in her get-up sitting around with me on the end of a dock, being married as I was and my folks all good honest church folks, and bright moon shining in the sky to boot, so I was just naturally forced to give in to the brazen thing and reach her down the bucket, a full one at that. It came back empty and she was forwarder than ever.

"'Say,' she cries out, swimming around most exasperatingly, 'you're a nice old party. What do your folks know you by?'

"I told her my name was none of her business and that I was a married man and that I wished she'd go away and let me go on with my night watching.

"'I'm married too,' says she, in a conversational tone, 'to an awful mess. You're pretty fuzzy, but I'd swap him for you any day. Come on into the sea with me and we'll swim down to Gold Fish Arms and stick around until we get a drink. I know lots of the boys down there. There ain't no liquor dealers where I come from,' and with this if you will believe me she flips a bucket full of water into my lap with the neatest little scale spangled tail you ever seen.

"'No,' says I, 'my mind's made up. I ain't agoing to go swimming around with no semi-stewed, altogether nude mermaid. It ain't right. It ain't Christian.'

"'I got a hat,' says she reflectively, 'and I ain't so stewed but wot I can't swim. Wot do you think of that hat? One of the boys stole it from his old woman and gave it to me. Come on, let's take a swim.'

"'No,' says I, 'I ain't agoing.'

"'Just 'cause I ain't all dolled up in a lot of clothes?' says she.

"'Partly,' says I, 'and partly because you are a mermaid. I ain't agoing messing around through the water with no mermaid. I ain't never done it and I ain't agoing to begin it now.'

"'If I get some clothes on and dress all up pretty, will you go swimming with me then?' she asks pleadingly.

"'Well that's another thing,' says I, noncommittal like.

"'All right,' says she, 'gimme something out of that other bucket and I'll go away. Come on, old sweetheart,' and she held up her arms to me.

"Well, I gave her the bucket and true to form she emptied it. Then she began to argue and plead with me until I nearly lost an ear.

"'No,' I yells at her, 'I ain't agoing to spend the night arguing with a drunken mermaid. Go away, now; you said you would.'

"'All right, old love,' she replies good-naturedly, 'but I'll see you again some time. I ain't ever going home again. I hate it down there.' And off she swims in an unsteady manner in the direction of the Gold Fish Arms. She was singing and shouting something terrible.

"'Oh, bury me not on the lonesome prairie Where the wild coyotes howl o'er me,'

was the song she sang and I wondered where she had ever picked it up.

"Well," continued the chief, "to cast a sheep shank in a long line, these visits kept up every evening until I was pretty near drove distracted. Along she'd come about sun-down and stick around devilin' me and drinking up all my grog. After a while she began calling for gin and kept threatening me until I just had to satisfy her. She also made me buy her a brush and comb, a mouth organ and a pair of spectacles, together with a lot of other stuff on the strength of the fact that if I refused she would make a scene. In this way that doggon mermaid continually kept me broke, for my wage warn't enough to make me heavy and I had my home to support.

"'Don't you ever go home?' I asked her one night.

"'No,' she replied, 'I ain't ever going back home. I don't like it down there. There ain't no liquor dealers.'

"'But your husband,' exclaims I. 'What of him?'

"'I know,' says she, 'but I don't like him and I'm off my baby, too. It squints,' says she.

"'But all babies squint,' says I.

"'Mine shouldn't,' says she. 'It ain't right.'

"Then one night an awful thing happened. My wife came down to the dock to find out how I spent all my money. It was a bright moon-lit night and this lost soul of a mermaid was hanging around, particularly jilled and entreating. I was just in the act of passing her down the gin flask and she was saying to me, 'Come on down, old love; you know you're crazy about me,' when all of a sudden I heard an infuriated shriek behind me and saw my wife leaning over the dock shaking an umbrella at this huzzy of a mermaid. Oh, son," broke off the Chief, "if you only knew the uncontrolled violence and fury of two contending women. Nothing you meet on shipboard will ever equal it. I was speechless, rocked in the surf of a tumult of words. And in the midst of it all what should happen but the husband of the mermaid pops out of the water with a funny little bit of a merbaby in his arms.

"'Go home at once, sir,' screams my wife, 'and put on your clothes.'

"'I will,' he shouts back, 'if my wife will come along with me.'

"He was a weazened up little old man with a crooked back. Not very prepossessing. I could hardly blame his wife.

"'So that bit of stuff is your wife, is it?' cries out my old lady, and with that she began telling him her past.

"'I know it,' says the little old merman at last, almost crying; 'I know it, but I ain't got no control over her whatsoever. I've been trying to get her to come home for the last fortnight, but she just won't leave off going around with the sailors. The whole beach is ashamed of her. It's general talk down below. What can I do? The little old coral house is going to wrack and ruin and the baby ain't been properly took care of since she left. What am I going to do, madam? What am I going to do? I'm well nigh distracted.'

"But his wife was too taken up with the gin bottle to pay much heed to his pitiful words. She just kept flirting around in the water and singing snatches of bad sailor songs she'd picked up around the docks.

"'Take her home,' said my wife, 'take her home, you weakling, by force.'

"'But I can't when she's in this condition. I got a child in my arms.'

"'Give me the baby,' said my wife, with sudden determination. 'I'll take care of it until to-morrow night when you can come back here and get it.'

"He handed the flopping little thing up to my wife and turned to the mermaid.

"'Lil,' he says to her, holding out his arms to her, 'Lil, will you come home?'

"Lil swims up to him then and takes him by the arm and looks at him for a long time.

"'Kiss me, Archie,' she says suddenly, 'I don't mind if I do,' and flipping a couple of pounds of water upon the both of us on the pier, she pulls him under the water laughing and that's the last I saw of either of them. Now I ain't asaying as I have ever seen a mermaid mind you," continued the chief, "but what I do say is that if any man has ever seen one I'm the man."

"I understand perfectly," said I, "and what, chief, became of the baby?"

"Oh, the baby," said the chief, thoughtful like; "the baby—well, you see, about that baby—" he gazed searchingly around the landscape for a moment before replying.

"Oh, the baby," he said suddenly, as if greatly relieved, "well, my wife took the baby home and kept it in the bathtub for a couple of days after which she returned it in person to its father. She made me give up my job. It did squint, though," said the chief, as he got up to go, "ever so little."

I turned to my shovel.

"But I ain't saying as I have ever seen a mermaid," he said, turning back in his tracks, "all I'm saying is that—"

"I know, Chief," I said wearily, "I fully appreciate your delicacy and fairness. You're not the man to make any false claims."

"No, sir, not I," he replied, as he walked slowly away.

August 5th. In order to distract Mr. Fogerty's attention from his love affair and in a sort of desperate endeavor to win him back to me I took him away on my last liberty with me. Fogerty doesn't come under the heading of a lap dog, but through some technical quibble I managed to smuggle him into the subway. All he did there was to knock over one elderly lady and lick her face effusively when he had gotten her down. This resulted in a small but complete panic. For the most part, however, he sat quietly on my lap and sniffed at those around him. At last we reached Washington Square, whereupon I proceeded to take Mr. Fogerty around and show him off to my friends. He was well received, but his heart wasn't with us. It was far away in City Island.



At one restaurant we ran into a female whose hair was nearly as short as Fogerty's. She was holding forth on the Silence of the Soul vs. the Love Impulse, the cabbage or some other plant. Fogerty listened to her for a while and then bit her. He did it quietly, but I thought it best to take him away.

After supper we went up to another place for coffee, a fine little place for sailormen, situated on the south side of the square. Here we were received with winning cordiality and Fogerty was given a fried egg, a dish of which he is passionately fond. But even here he got into trouble by putting one of his great feet through a Ukulele, which isn't such a terrible thing to do, except in certain places.

Getting back to the station was a crisp little affair. Fogerty and myself rose at five and went forth to the shuttle. The subway was a madhouse. We shuttled ourselves to death. At 5.30 we were at the Times Square end of the shuttle, at 5.45 we were at Williams, at 6 o'clock we had somehow managed to get ourselves on the east side end of the shuttle, five minutes later we were back at Times Square, ten minutes later we were over on the east side once more. At 6.15 I lost Fogerty. At 6.25 I was back at Times Square. "Hello, buddy," said the guard, "you back again? Here's your dog."

At 7 o'clock we were at Van Cortlandt Park, at 8 we were at Ninety-sixth Street, 9 o'clock found us laboring up to the gate of the camp, with a written list of excuses that looked like the schedule of a flourishing railroad. It was accepted, much to our surprise.

Aug. 7th. I have a perfectly splendid idea. Of course, like the rest of my ideas it won't work, but it is a perfectly splendid idea for all that. I got it while traveling on the ferry boat from New York to Staten Island—the longest sea voyage I have had since I joined the Navy. On this trip, strangely thrilling to a sailor in my situation, but which was suffered with bored indifference by the amphibious commuters that infest this Island in those waters, I saw a number of ships so gaudily and at the same time so carelessly painted that any God-fearing skipper of the Spanish Main would positively have refused to command. Captain Kidd himself would have blushed at the very sight of this ribald fleet and turned away with a devout imprecation.

This was my first experience with camouflage, and it impressed me most unfavorably. An ordinary ship on a grumbling ocean is difficult enough as it is to establish friendly relations with, but when trigged out in this manner—why serve meals at all, say I. Nevertheless it occurred to me that it would not be a bad idea at all to camouflage one's hammock in such a manner that it took upon itself the texture and appearance of the bulkhead of the barracks in which it was swung. In this manner a sailor could sleep undisturbed for three weeks if he so desired (and he does), without ever being technically considered a deserter.

One could elaborate this idea still further and make one's sea bag look like a clump of poison ivy, so that no inspecting officer would ever care to become intimate with its numerous defects in cleanliness. One might even go so far as to camouflage oneself into a writing desk so that when visiting the "Y" or the "K-C" and unexpectedly required to sing one would not be forced to rise and scream impatiently and threateningly "Dear Mother Mine" or "Break the News to Mother." Not that these songs are not things of rare beauty in themselves, but after a day on the coal pile one's lungs have been sufficiently exercised to warrant relief. This is merely an idea of mine, and now that everybody knows about it I guess there isn't much use in going ahead with it.

Aug. 8th. "This guide i-s l-e-f-t!" shouted the P.O., and naturally I looked around to see what had become of the poor fellow.

"Keep your head straight. Eyes to the front! Don't move! Whatcha lookin' at?"

"I was looking for the guide that was left," says I timidly. "It seems to me that he is always being left."

"Company dismissed," said the P.O. promptly, showing a wonderful command of the situation under rather trying circumstances, for the boo-hoo that went up from the men after my remark defied all restraints of discipline.

"Say, Biltmore," says the P.O. to me a moment later, "I'm going to see if I can't get you shipped to Siberia if you pull one of them bum jokes again. You understand?"

"But I wasn't joking," I replied innocently.

"Aw go on, you sly dog," said he, nudging me in the ribs, and for some strange reason he departed in high good humor, leaving me in a greatly mystified frame of mind.

Speaking of getting shipped, I have just written a very sad song in the style of the old sentimental ballads of the Spanish war days. It's called "The Sailor's Farewell," and I think Polly will like it. I haven't polished it up yet, but here it is as it is:

A sailor to his mother came and said, "Oh, mother dear, I got to go away and fight the war. So, mother, don't you cry too hard, and don't you have no fear When you find that I'm not sticking 'round no more."

"My boy," the sweet old lady said, "I hate to see you go. I've knowed you since when you was but a kid, But if the question you should ask, I'll tell the whole world so— It's the only decent thing you ever did."

A tear she brushed aside, And then she sadly cried:

CHORUS

"I'm proud my boy's a sailor man what sails upon the sea. I've always liked him pretty well although he is so dumb. For years he's stuck around the house and disappointed me. I thought that he was going to be a bum."

He took her gently by the hand and kissed her on the bean And said, "When I'm about to fight the Hun You shouldn't talk to me that way; I think it's awfully mean— I ain't agoin' to have a lot of fun."

"I know, my child," the mother said. "The parting makes me sad, But go you must away and fight the war. At least you will not live to drink as much as did your dad— So here's your lid, my lad, and there's the door."

Then as he turned away He heard her softly say:

CHORUS

"The sailors I have ever loved. I'm glad my lad's a gob, Although it seems to me he's much too dumb. But after all perhaps he isn't such an awful slob— I always knew that Kaiser was a bum!"

Aug. 9th. The best way to make a deserter of a man is to give him too much liberty. For the past week I have been getting my dog Fogerty on numerous liberty lists when he shouldn't have been there, but not contented with that he has taken to going around with a couple of yeomen, and the first thing I know he will be getting on a special detail where the liberty is soft. I put nothing past that dog since he lost his head to some flop-eared huzzy with a black and tan reputation.

Aug. 10th. All day long and a little longer I have been carrying sacks of flour. The next time I see a stalk of wheat I am going to snarl at it. This new occupation is a sort of special penance for not having my hammock lashed in time. It seems that I have been in the service long enough to know how to do the thing right by now, but the seventh hitch is a sly little devil and always gets me. I need a longer line or a shorter hammock, but the only way out of it that I can see is to get a commission and rate a bed.



I carried all the flour to-day that was raised last year in the southern section of the State of Montana, and I was carrying it well and cheerfully until one of my pet finger nails (the one that the manicure girls in the Biltmore used to rave about) thrust itself through the sack and precipitated its contents upon myself and the floor. A commissary steward when thoroughly aroused is a poisonous member of society. One would have thought that I had sunk the great fleet the way this bird went on about one little sack of flour.

"Here Mr. Hoover works hard night and day all winter," he sobs at me, "and you go spreading it around as if you were Marie Antoinette."

I wondered what new scandal he had about Marie Antoinette, but I held my peace. My horror was so great that the real color of my face made the flour look like a coat of sunburn in comparison.

"There's enough flour there," he continued reproachfully, pointing to the huge mound of stuff in which I stood like a lost explorer on a snow-capped mountain peak and wishing heartily that I was one, "there's enough flour," he continued, "to keep a chief petty officer in pie for twenty-four hours."

"Just about," thought I to myself.

"Well," he cried irritably, "pick it up. Be quick. Pick it up—all of it!"

"Pick it up," I replied through a cloud of mist, "you can't pick up flour. You can pick up apples and pears and cabbages and cigarette butts for that matter, but you can't pick up flour."

The commissary steward suddenly handed me a piece of paper upon which he had been writing frantically.

"Take this to your P.O.," he said shrilly, "and take yourself along with it.

"A defect in the sack," I gasped, departing.

"And there's a defect in you," he shouted after me, "your brain is exempted."

"Take this man and kill him if you can find any slight technical excuse for it," the note ran, "and if you can't kill him, give him an inaptitude discharge with my compliments, and if you are unable to do either of these two things, at least keep him away from my outfit. We don't want to see his silly face around here any more at all."

The P.O. read it to me with great delight.

"I guess we'll have to send you to Siberia after all," he said thoughtfully, "only that country is in far too delicate a condition for you to meddle with at present. Go away to somewhere where I can't see you," he continued bitterly, "for I feel inclined to do you an injury, something permanent and serious." I went right away.

Aug. 11th. Mother has just paid one of her belligerent visits to the camp, and as a consequence I am on the point of having a flock of brainstorms. Some misguided person had been telling her about the Officer Training School up here, and she arrived fired with the ambition to enter me into that institution without further delay. True to form, she bounded headlong into the matter without consulting my feelings by accosting the very first commissioned officer she met. He happened to be an Ensign, but he might as well have been a Vice-Admiral for all Mother cared.

"Tell me, young man," she said to this Ensign, going directly to the point, "do you see any reason why my boy Oswald should not go to that place where they make all the Ensigns?"

"Yes," said the officer firmly, "I do."

"Oh, you do," snapped Mother angrily, "and pray tell me what that reason might be?"

"Your son Oswald," replied the Ensign laconically.

"What!" exclaimed Mother, "you mean to say that my Oswald is not good enough to go to your silly old school?"

"No," replied the Ensign, weakening pitifully before the withering fury of an aroused mother, "but you see, my dear madam, he has not a first class rating."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Mother.

"Crossed anchors," replied the Ensign.

"I didn't mean that," continued Mother, "I think the whole thing is very mysterious and silly, and I'm not going to let it stop here. You can trust me, Oswald," she went on soothingly. "I am going to see the Commander of the station myself. I am going this very instant."

"But, Mother," I cried in desperation, tossing all consequences to the wind, "the 'skipper' isn't on the station to-day. He got a 43-hour liberty. I saw him check out of the gate myself."

For a moment the Ensign's jaw dropped. I watched him anxiously. Then with perfect composure he turned to Mother and came through like a little gentleman.

"Yes, madam," he stated, "your son is right. I heard his name read out with the liberty party only a moment ago. He has shoved off by now."

I could have kissed that Ensign.

"Well, I'm sure," said Mother, "it's very funny that I can never get to the Captain. I shall write him, however."

"He must have an interesting collection of your letters already," I suggested. "They would be interesting to publish in book form."

"Anyway," continued Mother, apparently not attending to my remark, "I think you would look just as well as this young man in one of those nice white suits."

"No doubt, madam," replied the Ensign propitiatingly, "no doubt."

"Come, Mother," said I, "let's go to the Y.M.C.A. I need something cool to steady my nerves."

"How about your underwear?" said Mother, coming back to her mania, in a voice that invited all within earshot who were interested in my underwear to draw nigh and attend.

"Here, eat this ice cream," I put in quickly, almost feeding her. "It's melting."

But Mother was not to be decoyed away from her favorite topic.

"I must look it over," she continued firmly.

It seemed to me that every eye in the room was calmly penetrating my whites and carefully looking over the underwear in which Mother took such an exaggerated interest. "Socks!" suddenly exploded Mother. "How are you off for socks?"

"Splendidly," I said in a hoarse voice. A girl behind me snickered.

"And have you that liniment to rub on your stomach when you have cramps?" she went on ruggedly.

"Enough to last through the Fall season," I replied in a moody voice. I didn't tell her that Tim the barkeep had tried to drink it.

"Polly!" suddenly exclaimed Mother. "Polly! Why, I forgot to tell you that she said that she would be up this afternoon. She must be here now."

The world swam around me. Polly was my favorite sweetie.

"Oh, Mother!" I cried reproachfully, "how could you have forgotten?"

At that moment I heard a familiar voice issuing from the corner, and turning around, I caught sight of the staff reporter of the camp paper, a notoriously unscrupulous sailor with predatory proclivities. He had gotten Polly in a corner and was chinning the ear off of her. As I drew near I heard him saying:

"Really it's an awful pity, but I distinctly remember him saying that he was going away on liberty to-day. He mentioned some girl's name, but it didn't sound anything at all like yours."

Polly looked at him trustfully.

"Are you sure, Mr.——"

"Savanrola," the lying wretch supplied without turning a hair.

"Are you sure, Mr. Savanrola, that he has left the station?"

"Saw him check out with my own eyes," he said calmly.

I moved nearer, my hands twitching.

"Now with an honest old seafaring man like myself," he continued, in a confidential voice, "it's different. Why, if I should wear all the hash marks I rate I'd look like a zebra. So I just don't wear any. You know how it is. But when I like a girl I stick to her. Now from the very first moment I laid eyes on you—"

Human endurance could stand no more. I threw myself between them.

"Why, here's Oswald hisself," exclaimed the reporter with masterfully feigned surprise. "However did you get back so soon?"

"I have never been away anywhere to get back from, and you know it," I replied coldly.

"Strange!" he said, "I could have sworn that I saw you checking out. Can I get you some ice cream?" he added smoothly.

"What on?" I replied bitterly, knowing him always to be broke.

"Your mother must have—"

"Come," said I to Polly, "leave this degraded creature to ply his pernicious trade alone. I have some very important words to say to you."

"Good-by, Mr. Savanrola," said Polly.

"Until we meet again," answered the reporter, with the utmost confidence.

Aug. 12th. It's all arranged. Those words I had to say to Polly were not spoken in vain. She has promised to be my permanent sweetie. Of course, I have had a number of transit sweeties in the past, but now I'm going to settle down to one steady, day in and day out sweetie. I told Tim, the barkeep, about it last night and all he said was:

"What about all those parties we'd planned to have after we were paid off?"

This sort of set me back for the moment. The spell of Polly's eyes had made me forget all about Tim.

"Well, Tim," I replied, "I'll have to think about that. Come on over to the canteen and I'll feed you some of those honest, upstanding sandwiches they have over there."

"Say," says Tim, the carnal beast, forgetting everything at the prospect of food, "I feel as if I could cover a flock of them without trying."

So together Tim and I had a bachelor's dinner over the sandwiches, which were worthy of that auspicious occasion.

Aug. 17th. We were standing on a street corner of a neighboring town. The party consisted of Tim the barkeep, the "Spider," an individual who modestly acknowledged credit for having brought relief to several over-crowded safes in the good old civilian days; Tony, who delivered ice in my district also in those aforementioned days, and myself. These gentlemen for some time had been allowing me to exist in peace, and I had been showing my gratitude by buying them whatever little dainties they desired, but such a comfortable state of affairs could not long continue with that bunch. Suddenly, without any previous consultation, as if drawn together as it were by some fiendish undercurrent, they decided to make me unhappy—me, the only guy that spoke unbroken English in the crowd. This is the way they accomplished their low ends. When the next civilian came along they all of them shouted at me in tones that could be heard by all passers-by:

"Here comes a 'ciwilian,' buddy; he'll give you a quarter."

"Do you need some money, my boy?" said the old gentleman to me in a kindly voice.

"No, sir," I stammered, getting red all over, "thank you very much, but I really don't need any money."

Ironical laughter from my friends in the background.

"Oh, no," cries Tim sarcastically, "he don't need no money. Just watch him when he sees the color of it."

"Don't hesitate, my son," continued the kind old man, "if you need anything I would be glad to help you out."

"No, sir," I replied, turning away to hide my mortification, "everything is all right."

"Poor but proud," hisses the "Spider." The old gentleman passed on, sorely perplexed.

For some time I was a victim of this crude plot. When I tried to move away they followed me around the streets, crying after me:

"Any 'ciwilian' will give you a quarter. Go on an' ask them."

Several ladies stopped and asked if they could be of any service to me. I assured them that they couldn't, but all the time these low sailors whom I had been feeding lavishly kept jeering and intimating that I was fooling and would take any amount of money offered me from a dime up. This shower of conflicting statements always left the kindhearted people in a confused frame of mind and broke me up completely. I had to chase one man all the way down the street and hand him back the quarter he had thrust into my hand. My friends never forgave me for this.

At length, tiring of their sport, they desisted and stood gloomily on the curb as sailors do, looking idly at nothing.

"It don't look like we was ever going to get a hitch," said the "Spider," after we had abandonedly offered ourselves to several automobiles.

At that moment a huge machine rolled heavily by.

"There goes a piece of junk," said Tim. The lady in the machine must have heard him, for the car came to and she motioned for us to get in.

"Going our way?" she asked, smiling at us.

"Thanks, lady," replies Tim, elbowing me aside as he climbed aboard.

"Dust your feet," I whispered to Tony as he was about to climb in.

"Whatta you mean, dusta my feet?" shouted Tony wrathfully, "you go head an' dusta your feet! I look out for my feet all right."

"What did he want yer to do, Tony?" asked Tim in a loud voice.

"Dusta my feet," answered Tony, greatly injured.

"What yer doin', Oswald?" asks Tim sarcastically, "tryin' to drag us up?"

"I only spoke for the best," I answered, sick at heart.

"Ha! ha!" grated Tim, "guess you think we ain't never rode in one of these wealthy wagons before."

"Arn't you rather young?" asked the lady soothingly of the "Spider," who by virtue of his mechanical experience in civil life had been given a first class rating, "Arn't you rather young to have so many things on your arm?"

"Yes," answered the "Spider" promptly, "but I kin do a lot of tricks."

The conversation languished from this point.

"We always take our boys to dinner, don't we, dear?" said the lady to her husband a little later.

"Yes, dear," he answered meekly, just like that.

Expectant silence from the four of us.

"Have you boys had dinner?" the lady asked.

"Certainly not," we cried, with an earnestness that gave the lie to our statement, "no dinner!"

"None at all," added Tim thoughtfully.

The automobile drew up at a 14k. plate-glass house that fairly made the "Spider" itch.

"Gosh," he whispered to me, looking at the porch, "that wouldn't be hard for me."

During the dinner he kept sort of lifting and weighing the silver and then looking at me and winking in an obvious manner.

"Not many people here to-night," said Tony from behind his plate.

"Why, there is the usual number," said the husband in surprise, "my wife and myself live alone."

"Oh," said Tony, looking around at the tremendous dining hall, "I thought this was a restaurant."



Tim started laughing then, and he hasn't stopped yet. He's so proud he didn't make the mistake himself.

The "Spider" didn't open his mouth save for the purpose of eating. He told me he was afraid his teeth would chatter.

Aug. 20th. Got a letter from Polly to-day. She says that her finger is just itching for the ring. I told the "Spider" about it and he said that he had several unset stones he'd let me have for next to nothing. A good burglar is one of the most valuable friends a man can possess.

Sept. 3d. I had such a set-back to-day. Never was I more confounded. This morning I received a notice to report before the examining board for a first class rating. Of course I had been expecting some slight recognition of my real worth for a long time, but when the blow fell I was hardly prepared for it. Hurrying to "My Blue Jacket's Manual," I succeeded by the aid of a picture in getting firmly in my mind the port and starboard side of a ship and then I presented myself before the examiners—three doughty and unsmiling officers. There were about twelve of us up for examination. Seating ourselves before the three gentlemen, we gazed upon them with ill-concealed trepidation. One of them called the roll in a languid manner, and then without further preliminaries the battle began, and I received the first shock of the assault. I don't quite remember the question that man asked me, it was all too ghastly at the time, but I think it was something like this:

"What would you do if you were at the wheel in a dense fog and you heard three whistles on your port beam, four whistles off the starboard bow, and a prolonged toot dead ahead?"

"I would still remain in a dense fog," I gasped in a low voice.

"Speak up!" snapped the officer.

"Full speed ahead and jumps," whispered a guy next to me. It sounded reasonable. I seized upon it eagerly.

"I'd put full steam ahead and jump, sir," I replied.

"Are you mad?" shouted the amazed officer.

"No, sir," I hastened to assure him, "only profoundly perplexed. I think, sir, that I would go into a conference, under the circumstances."

The officer seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.

"What's your name?" asked another officer suddenly.

I told him.

"Initials?"

I told him. He looked at the paper for a moment.

"That explains it," he said with a sigh of relief, "you're not the man. There has been some mistake. Orderly, take this man away and bring back the right one. Pronto!"

That Spanish stuff sounds awfully sea-going. I was taken away, but the officer had not yet recovered. He regarded me with an expression of profound disgust. Anyway I created a sensation.



Sept. 4th. Things have been happening with overwhelming rapidity. On the strength of being properly engaged to Polly, my permanent sweetie, I went to my Regimental commander this morning and applied for a furlough. He regarded me pityingly for a moment and then carefully scanned a list of names on the desk before him.

"I am sorry," he said finally, "but not only am I not able to grant your request, but I have the unpleasant duty to inform you that you are a little less than forty-eight hours from the vicinity of Ambrose light."

"Shipped!" I gasped as the world swam around me.

"Your name is on this list," said the officer not unkindly.

"Shipped!" I repeated in a dazed voice.

"It does seem ridiculous, I'll admit," said the officer, smiling, "but you never can tell what strange things are going to happen in the Navy. If I were in your place I'd take advantage of this head start I have given you and get my clothes and sea-bag in some sort of condition. If I remember rightly, you have never been able successfully to achieve this since you've been in the service."

"Thank you, sir," I gasped, and bolted. In my excitement I ran violently into a flock of ensigns stalking across the parade ground.

"I'm going to be shipped," I cried by way of explanation to one of them as he arose wrathfully.

"You're going to be damned," said he, and I was. Too frantic to write more.

Sept. 5th. All preparations have been made. Tim, Tony and the Spider are going too. I have just been listening to the most disturbing conversation. It all arose from our speculating as to our probable destination and the nature of our services. The Master-at-arms, who had been sleeping on the hammock rack as only a Master-at-arms can, permitted himself to remain awake long enough to join in.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," said he, "if you were shipped to one of these new Submarine Provokers."

"What's that?" I asked uneasily.

"Why, it's a sort of a dee-coy," said he, stretching his huge hulk, "a little, unarmed boat that goes messing around in the ocean until it finds a submarine and then it provokes it."

"How's that?" asked Tim.

"Why, you see," continued the jimmy-legs, "it just sort of steams back and forth in front of the submarine, just steams slowly back and forth in front of the submarine until it provokes it."

"Ah!" said I, taking a deep breath.

"Yes," he continues cheerfully, "and the more you provoked the submarine why the harder it shoots at you, so of course it doesn't notice the real Submarine Sinker coming up behind it. See the tactics."

"Oh," says I, "we just provoke the submarine until it loses its temper and the other boat sinks it."

"That's it," says the jimmy-legs, "you just sort of steam back and forth in front of it slowly."

"How slowly?" asks the Spider.

"Very," replied the jimmy-legs.

"No guns at all?" asks Tim.

"None," says he.

"A regular little home," suggests Tony.

"Sure," says the jimmy-legs, "nothing to do at all but steam slowly back—"

"For God's sake don't dwell on that point any more!" I cried. "We understand it perfectly."

"A regular lil' home," muttered Tim as he began to stow his bag.

(Later) I write these lines with horror. Some one has told me that the Navy needs Powder tasters, something I'd never heard of before, and that perhaps—that's what we are going to be used for. All you have to do, this guy says, is to taste the powder to see if it's damp or dry and if it's damp you take it away and bake it. This sounds worse than the Submarine Provoker.

(Still later) Rumor is rife. The latest report is that we are going to be Mine Openers.

"What's a Mine Opener?" I asked my informant.

"Why, it's a guy," says he, "that picks up the mines floating around his boat, but only the German mines of course, and opens them to see if they are as dangerous as they look. Some are not half as dangerous as they look," he continues easily, "some are not quite so dangerous and of course some are a great deal more so. But they are all dangerous enough."

"My dear chap," I replied, turning away miserably, "a pinwheel is quite dangerous enough for me."

Sept. 6th. This is being written from the gate. My bag and hammock are beside me. Tim lashed them together for me so they wouldn't come undone. We are waiting for the truck. Tony in his excitable way wants to kiss the guard good-by. The guard doesn't want him to. My last moments at Pelham have been hectic. The doctor said I looked one hundred per cent better than when I came in, but that wasn't enough. If you didn't look at me very closely you wouldn't know that I was such an awful dub. This is progress at any rate. The telephone wires between mother's house and the camp were dripping wet with tears when I phoned her that I was being shipped. However, she braced up and said she was proud of me and said she hoped I'd tell the captain good-by and thank him for all he has done. I assured her I would do this, or at least leave a note. Polly was a trump. The Spider talked to her and said that he was going to save the best uncut stone for her that he had ever bitten out of a ring. The Spider has been very valuable to us all. He seems to have the uncanny faculty of being able to take the cloth straps off other people's clothes right before their eyes. Consequently we are well supplied. At present he's looking at the handle of the gate in a musing way. I think he would like to have it as a souvenir. Here comes the truck. Pelham is about to lose its most useless recruit. I must tuck these priceless pages in my money belt. Wish I had a picture of Polly. Well, here's to the High Adventure, but there's something about that Submarine Provoker I can't quite get used to. It seems just a trifle one sided. However, that is in the lap of the gods. Instead of a camp I will soon have the vast expanses of the ocean in which to demonstrate my tremendous inability to emulate the example of one John Paul Jones.

"Bear a hand there, buddy," the P.O. has just cried at me.

"Buddy" I came in and "buddy" I go out. We're off! I can dimly distinguish Mr. Fogerty, that unscrupulous dog that abandoned my bed and board for a couple of influential yeomen. Farewell, Fogerty, may your evil ways never bring you to grief. I do wish I had a picture of my Sweetie.



THE END