does he get out of them? I don't know, perhaps both. Anyway, you get
what I mean.

[Illustration: "THIS IS DESIGNED TO GIVE US PHYSICAL POISE"]


_March 17th._ This spring weather is bringing the birds out in great
quantities. They bloomed along the fence today like a Ziegfeld chorus
on an outing. One girl carried on a coherent conversation with six
different fellows at once and left each of them feeling that he alone
had been singled out for her particular favor. As a matter of fact I
was flirting with her all the time and I could tell by the very way
she looked that she would have much rather been talking to me. Last
week I had to convince mother that I was wearing my flannels; this
week I had to convince her I still had them on. The only way to
satisfy her, I suppose, is to appear before her publicly in them.
Poor, dear mother, she told me she had written the doctor up here
asking him not to squirt my arm full of those horrid little germs any
more. She said I came from a good, clean family, and had been bathed
once a week all my life, except the time when I had the measles and
then it wasn't advisable. I am sure this must have cheered the doctor
up tremendously. She also asked him to be sure to see that I got my
meals regularly. I can see him now taking me by the hand and leading
me to the mess-hall. When I suggested to mother that she write
President Wilson asking him to be sure to see that my blankets didn't
fall off at night, she said that I was a sarcastic, ungrateful boy.


_March 18th._ There is something decidedly wrong with me as a sailor.
I got my pictures to-day. Try as I may, I am unable to locate the
trouble. There seems to be some item left out. Not enough salt in the
mixture, perhaps. I don't know exactly what it is but I seem to be a
little too, may I say, handsome or, perhaps, polished would be the
better word. I'm afraid to send the pictures away because no one will
believe them. They will think I borrowed the clothes.


_March 19th._ A funny thing happened last Sunday that I forgot to
record. A girl had her foot on the fence and when she took it down
every one yelled, "As you were." Sailors have such a delicate sense of
humor. Well, that's about enough for to-day.


_March 20th._ We had a lecture on boats to-day. The only thing I don't
know now is how to tell a bilge from a painter. The oar was easy. It
is divided into three parts, the stem, the lead and the muzzle. I must
remember this, it is very important. The men are getting so used to
inoculations around here that they complain when they don't get
enough. We're shaping up into a fine body of men, our company
commander told us this morning, and added, that if we continue to pick
up cigarette butts several more weeks we'll be able to stack arms
without dropping our guns. Eli, the goat, seems unwell to-day. I
attribute his unfortunate condition to his constant and unrelenting
efforts to keep the canteen clear of paper. It is my belief that
goats are not healthy because of the fact that they eat paper, but in
spite of it, and I feel sure that if all goats got together and
decided to cut out paper for a while and live on a regular diet, they
would be a much more robust race. The movies were great to-night. I
saw Sidney Drew's left ear and a mole on the neck of the man in front
of me.


_March 21st._ A fellow in our bay asked last night how much an
admiral's pay was a month and when we told him he yawned, turned over
on his side and said, "Not enough." He added that he could pick up
that much at a first-class parade any time. We all tightened our wrist
watches. Been blinking at the blinker all evening. Can't make much
sense out of it. The bloomin' thing is always two blinks ahead of me.
It's all very nice, I dare say, but I'd much rather get my messages on
scented paper. I got one to-day. She called me her "Great, big, cute
little sailor boy." Those were her exact words. How clever she is. I'm
going to marry her just as soon as I'm a junior lieutenant. She'll
wait a year, anyway.


_March 22d._ I made up verses to myself in my hammock last night.
Perhaps I'll send some of them to the camp paper. It would be nice to
see your stuff in print. Here's one of the poems:


_THE UNREGENERATE SAILOR MAN_

I

I take my booze
In my overshoes;
I'm fond of the taste of rubber;
I oil my hair
With the grease of bear
Or else with a bull whale's blubber.


II

My dusky wife
Was a source of strife,
So I left her in Singapore
And sailed away
At the break of day--
Since then I have widowed four.


III

Avast! Belay,
And alack-a-day
That I gazed in the eyes of beauty.
For in devious ways
Their innocent gaze
Has caused me much extra duty.


IV

I never get past
The jolly old mast,
The skipper and I are quite chummy;
He knows me by sight
When I'm sober or tight
And calls me a "wicked old rummy."


A sort of sweetheart-in-every-port type I intend to make him--a
seafaring man of the old school such as I suppose some of the
six-stripers around here were. I don't imagine it was very difficult
to get a good conduct record in the old days, because from all the
tales I've heard from this source and that, a sailor-man who did not
too openly boast of being a bigamist and who limited his homicidical
inclinations to half a dozen foreigners when on shore leave, was
considered a highly respectable character. Perhaps this is not at all
true and I for one can hardly believe it when I look at the virtuous
and impeccable exteriors of the few remaining representatives with
whom I have come in contact. However, any one has my permission to ask
them if it is true or not, should they care to find out for
themselves. I refuse to be held responsible though. I think I shall
send this poem to the paper soon.

It must be wonderful to get your poems in print. All my friends would
be so proud to know me. I wonder if the editors are well disposed,
God-fearing men.

[Illustration: "LIBERTY PARTY"]

From all I hear they must be a hard lot. Probably they'll be nice to
me because of my connections. I know so many bartenders. Next week I
rate liberty! Ah, little book, I wonder what these pages will contain
when I come back. I hate to think. New York, you know, is such an
interesting place.


_March 25th._ Man! Man! How I suffer! I'm so weary I could sleep on my
company commander's breast, and to bring oneself to that one must be
considerably fatigued, so to speak. Who invented liberty, anyway? It's
a greatly over-rated pastime as far as I can make out, consisting of
coming and going with the middle part omitted.

One man whispered to me at muster this morning that all he could
remember of his liberty was checking out and checking in. He looked
unwell. My old pal, "Spike" Kelly, I hear was also out of luck. His
girl was the skipper of a Fourteenth Street crosstown car, so he was
forced to spend most of his time riding, between the two rivers. He
nickeled himself to death in doing it. He said if Mr. Shonts plays
golf, as no doubt he does, he has "Spike" Kelly to thank for a nice,
new box of golf balls. And while on the subject, "Spike" observes that
one of those engaging car signs should read:

"Is it Gallantry, or the Advent of Woman Suffrage, or the Presence of
the Conductorette that Causes So Many Sailors to Wear Out Their Seats
Riding Back and Forth, and So Many Unnecessary Fares to Be Rung Up in
So Doing?"

His conversation with "Mame," his light-o'-love, was conducted along
this line:

"Say, Mame."

"Yes, George, dear (fare, please, madam). What does tweetums want?"

"You look swell in your new uniform."

"Oh, Georgie, do you think it fits? (Yes, madam, positively, the car
was brushed this morning, your baby will be perfectly safe inside.)"

"Mame."

"George! (Step forward, please.) Go on, dear."

"Mame, it's doggon hard to talk to you here." "Isn't it just! (What
is it lady? Cabbage? Oh, baggage! No, no, you can't check baggage
here; this isn't a regular train.) George, stop holding my hand! I
can't make change!"

"Aw, Mame, who do you love?"

"Why, tweetums, I love--(plenty of room up forward! Don't jam up the
door) you, of course. (Fare, please! Fare, please! Have your change
ready!)"

"Can't we get a moment alone, Mame?"

"Yes, dear; wait until twelve-thirty, and we'll drive to the car barn
then. (Transfers! Transfers!)"

"Spike" says that his liberty was his first actual touch with the
horrors of war.

Another bird that lived in some remote corner of New York State told
me in pitiful tones that all he had time to do was to walk down the
street of his home town, shake hands with the Postmaster, lean over
the fence and kiss his girl (it had to go two ways, Hello and
Good-by), take a package of clean underwear from his mother as he
passed by and catch the outbound train on the dead run. All he could
do was to wave to the seven other inhabitants. He thought the Grand
Central Terminal was a swell dump, though. He said: "There was quite a
lot of it," which is true.

As for myself, I think it best to pass lightly over most of the
incidents of my own personal liberty. The best part of a diary is that
one can show up one's friends to the exclusion of oneself. Anyway, why
put down the happenings of the past forty-three hours? They are
indelibly stamped on my memory. One sight I vividly recall, "Ardy"
Muggins, the multi-son of Muggins who makes the automatic clothes
wranglers. He was sitting in a full-blooded roadster in front of the
Biltmore, and the dear boy was dressed this wise ("Ardy" is a sailor,
too, I forgot to mention): There was a white hat on his head; covering
and completely obliterating his liberty blues was a huge bearskin
coat, which when pulled up disclosed his leggins neatly strapped over
patent leather dancing pumps. It was an astounding sight. One that
filled me with profound emotion.

"Aren't you a trifle out of uniform, Ardy?" I asked him. One has to be
so delicate with Ardy, he's that sensitive. "Why, I thought I might
as well embellish myself a bit," says Ardy.

"You've done all of that," says I, "but for heaven's sake, dear, do
keep away from Fourteenth Street; there are numerous sea-going sailors
down there who might embellish you still further."

"My God!" cries Ardy, striving to crush the wind out of the horn, "I
never slum."

"Don't," says I, passing inside to shake hands with several of my
friends behind the mahogany. Shake hands, alas, was all I did.


_March 26th._ I must speak about the examinations before I forget it.
What a clubby time we had of it. I got in a trifle wrong at the start
on account of my sociable nature. You know, I thought it was a sort of
a farewell reception given by the officers and the C.P.O.'s to the men
departing after their twenty-one days in Probation, so the first thing
I did when I went in was to shake hands with an Ensign, who I thought
was receiving. He got rid of my hand with the same briskness that one
removes a live coal from one's person. The whole proceeding struck me
as being a sort of charity bazaar. People were wandering around from
booth to booth, in a pleasant sociable manner, passing a word here and
sitting down there in the easiest-going way imaginable. Leaving the
Ensign rather abruptly, I attached myself to the throng and started in
search of ice cream and cake. This brought me up at a table where
there was a very pleasant looking C.P.O. holding sway, and with him I
thought I would hold a few words. What was my horror on hearing him
snap out in a very crusty manner:

"How often do you change your socks?"

This is a question I allow no man to ask me. It is particularly
objectionable. "Why, sir," I replied, "don't you think you are
slightly overstepping the bounds of good taste? One does not even jest
about such totally personal matters, ye know." Then rising, I was
about to walk away without even waiting for his reply, but he called
me back and handed me my paper, on which he had written "Impossible"
and underlined it.

The next booth I visited seemed to be a little more hospitable, so I
sat down with the rest of the fellows and prepared to talk of the
events of the past twenty-one days.

"How many Articles are there?" suddenly asked a C.P.O. who hitherto
had escaped my attention.

"Twelve," I replied promptly, thinking I might just as well play the
game, too.

"What are they based on?" he almost hissed, but not quite.

"The Constitution of these United States," I cried in a loud,
public-spirited voice, at which the C.P.O. choked and turned
dangerously red. It seems that not only was I not quite right, but
that I couldn't have been more wrong.

"Go," he gasped, "before I do you some injury." A very peculiar man, I
thought, but, nevertheless, his heart seemed so set on my going that I
thought it would be best for us to part.

"I am sure I do not wish to force myself upon you," I said icily as I
left. The poor man appeared to be on the verge of having a fit.

"Do you want to tie some knots?" asked a kind-voiced P.O. at the next
booth.

"Crazy about it," says I, easy like.

"Then tie some," says he. So I tied a very pretty little knot I had
learned at the kindergarten some years ago and showed it to him.

"What's that?" says he.

"That," replies I coyly. "Why, that is simply a True Lover's knot. Do
you like it?"

"Orderly," he screamed. "Orderly, remove this." And hands were laid
upon me and I was hurled into the arms of a small, but ever so
sea-going appearing chap, who was engaged in balancing his hat on the
bridge of his nose and wig-wagging at the same time. After beating me
over the head several times with the flags, he said I could play with
him, and he began to send me messages with lightning-like rapidity.
"What is it?" he asked.

"Really," I replied, "I lost interest in your message before you
finished."

After this my paper looked like a million dollars with the one knocked
off.

"What's a hackamatack?" asked the next guy. Thinking he was either
kidding me or given to using baby talk, I replied:

"Why, it's a mixture between a thingamabob and a nibleck."

His treatment of me after this answer so unnerved me that I dropped my
gun at the next booth and became completely demoralized. The greatest
disappointment awaited me at "Monkey Drill," or setting up exercises,
however. I thought I was going to kill this. I felt sure I was going
to outstrip all competitors. But in the middle of it all the examiner
yelled out in one of those sarcastic voices that all rookies learn to
fear: "Are you trying to flirt with me or do you think you're a
bloomin' angel?"

This so sickened me at heart that I left the place without further
ado, whatever that might be. Pink teas in the Navy are not unmixed
virtues.


_March 27th._ My birthday, and, oh, how I do miss my cake. It's the
first birthday I ever had without a cake except two and then I had a
bottle. Oh, how well I remember my last party (birthday party)!

There was father and the cake all lit up in the center of the table; I
mean the cake, not father, of course. And there was Gladys (I always
called her "Glad"). She'd been coming to my birthday parties for years
and years. She always came first and left last and ate the most and
got the sickest of all the girls I knew. It was appalling how that
girl could eat.

But, as I was saying, there was father and the cake, and there was
mother and "Glad" and all the little candles were twinkling, lighting
up my presents clustered around, among them being half a dozen maroon
silk socks, a box of striped neck ties, all perfect joys; spats, a
lounging gown, ever so many gloves and the snappiest little cane in
all the world. And what have I around me now? A swab on one side, a
bucket on the other, a broom draped over my shoulder, C.P.O.'s in
front of me, P.O.'s behind me and work all around me--oh, what a
helluvabirthday! I told my company commander last night that the next
day was going to be my birthday, hoping he would do the handsome thing
and let me sleep a little later in the morning, but did he? No, the
Brute, he said I should get up earlier so as to enjoy it longer. As
far as I can find out, the Camp remains totally unmoved by the fact
that I am one year older to-day--and what a hubbub they used to raise
at home. I think the very least they could do up here would be to ask
me to eat with the officers.


_March 28th._ These new barracks over in the main camp are too large;
not nearly so nice as our cosey little bays. I'm really homesick for
Probation and the sound of our old company commander's dulcet voice. I
met Eli on the street to-day and I almost broke down on his neck and
cried. He was the first familiar thing I had seen since I came over to
the main camp.


_March 29th._ This place is just like the Probation Camp, only more
so. Life is one continual lecture trimmed with drills and hikes--oh,
when will I ever be an Ensign, with a cute little Submarine Chaser all
my own?


_April 6th._ The events of the past few days have so unnerved me that
I have fallen behind in my diary. I must try to catch up, for what
would posterity do should the record of my inspiring career in the
service not be faithfully recorded for them to read with reverence and
amazement in days to come?

One of the unfortunate events arose from scraping a too intimate
acquaintance with that horrid old push ball. How did it ever get into
camp anyway, and who ever heard of a ball being so large? It doesn't
seem somehow right to me--out of taste, if you get what I mean. There
is a certain lack of restraint and conservatism about it which all
games played among gentlemen most positively should possess. But the
chap who pushed that great big beast of a push ball violently upon my
unsuspecting nose was certainly no gentleman. Golly, what a resounding
whack! This fellow (I suspect him of being a German spy, basing my
suspicions upon his seeming disposition for atrocities) was standing
by, looking morosely at this small size planet when I blows gently up
and says playfully in my most engaging voice:

"I say, old dear, you push it to me and I'll push it to
you--softly, though, chappy, softly." And with that he flung
himself upon the ball and hurled it full upon my nose, completely
demolishing it. Now I have always been a little partial to my nose. My
eyes, I'll admit, are not quite as soulful as those liquid orbs of
Francis X. Bushman's, but my nose has been frequently admired and
envied in the best drawing rooms in New York. But it won't be envied
any more, I fear--pitied rather.

Of course I played the game no more. I was nauseated by pain and the
sight of blood. My would-be assassin was actually forced to sit down,
he was so weak from brutal laughter. I wonder if I can ever be an
Ensign with a nose like this?

[Illustration: "OF COURSE I PLAYED THE GAME NO MORE"]


_April 7th._ On the way back from a little outing the other day my
companion, Tim, who in civil life had been a barkeeper and a good one
at that, ingratiated himself in the good graces of a passing
automobile party and we consequently were asked in. There were two
girls, sisters, I fancy, and a father and mother aboard.

"And where do you come from, young gentlemen?" asked the old man.

"Me pal comes from San Diego," pipes up my unscrupulous friend, "and
my home town is San Francisco."

I knew for a fact that he had never been farther from home than the
Polo Grounds, and as for me I had only the sketchiest idea of where my
home town was supposed to be.

"Ah, Westerners!" exclaimed the old lady. "I come from the West
myself. My family goes back there every year."

"Yes," chimed in the girls, "we just love San Diego!"

"In what section of the town did you live?" asked the gentleman, and
my friend whom I was inwardly cursing, seeing my perplexity, quickly
put in for me:

"Oh, you would never know it, sir," and then lowering his voice in a
confidential way, he added, "he kept a barroom in the Mexican part of
the town."

"A barroom!" exclaimed the old lady. "Fancy that!" She looked at me
with great, innocent interest.

"Yes," continued this lost soul, "my father, who is a State senator,
sent him to boarding school and tried to do everything for him, but he
drifted back into the old life just as soon as he could. It gets a hold
on them, you know."

"Yes, I know," said the old lady, sadly, "my cook had a son that went
the same way."

"He isn't really vicious, though," added my false friend with feigned
loyalty--"merely reckless."

"Well, my poor boy," put in the old gentleman with cheery
consideration, "I am sure you must find that navy life does you a
world of good--regular hours, temperate living and all that."

"Right you are, sport," says I bitterly, assuming my enforced role, "I
haven't slit a Greaser's throat since I enlisted."

"We must all make sacrifices these days," sighed the old lady.

"And perhaps you will be able to exercise your--er--er rather robust
inclinations on the Germans when you meet them on the high seas,"
remarked the old man, who evidently thought to comfort me.

"If I can only keep him out of the brig," said this low-down friend of
mine, "I think they might make a first-rate mess hand out of him," at
which remark both of the girls, who up to this moment had been
studying me silently, exploded into loud peals of mirth and then I
knew where I had met them before--at Kitty Van Tassel's coming out
party, and I distinctly recalled having spilled some punch on the
prettier one's white satin slipper.

"We get out here," I said, hoarsely, choking with rage.

"But!" exclaimed the old lady, "it's the loneliest part of the road."

"However that may be," I replied with fine firmness, "I must
nevertheless alight here. I have a great many things to do before I
return to camp and lonely roads are well suited to my purposes. My
homicidal leanings are completely over-powering me."

"Watch him closely," said the old lady to my companion, as the car
came to a stop.

"He will have to," I replied grimly, as I prepared to alight.

"Perhaps Mr. Oswald will mix us a cocktail some day," said one of the
sisters, leaning over the side of the car. "I have heard that he
supported many bars at one time, but I never knew he really owned
one."

"What," I heard the old lady exclaiming as the car pulled away, "he
really isn't a bartender at all--well, fancy that!"

There were a couple of pairs of rather dusty liberty blues in camp
that night.


_April 8th._ Yesterday mother paid a visit to camp and insisted upon
me breaking out my hammock in order for her to see if I had covers
enough.

"I can never permit you to sleep in that, my dear," she said after
pounding and prodding it for a few numbers; "never--and I am sure the
Commander will agree with me after I have explained to him how
delicate you have always been."

Later in the afternoon she became a trifle mollified when I told her
that the master-at-arms came around every night and distributed extra
blankets to every one that felt cold. "Be sure to see that he gives
you enough coverings," she said severely, "or else put him on report,"
which I faithfully promised to do.

She was greatly delighted with the Y.M.C.A. and the Hostess Committee.
Here I stood her up for several bricks of ice cream and a large
quantity of cake. My fourth attempt she refused, however, saying by
way of explanation to a very pretty girl standing by, "It wouldn't be
good for him, my dear; my son has always had such a weak stomach. The
least little thing upsets him."

[Illustration: "SHE WAS GREATLY DELIGHTED WITH THE Y.M.C.A."]

"I believe you," replied the young lady, sympathetically, as she gazed
at me. I certainly looked upset at the moment. This was worse than the
underwear.

"So that's an Ensign!" she exclaimed later in an obviously
disappointed tone of voice; "well, I'm not so sure that I want you to
become one now." The passing ensign couldn't help but hear her, as she
had practically screamed in his ear. He turned and studied my face
carefully. I think he was making sure that he could remember it.

"Now take me to your physician," commanded mother, resolutely. "I want
to be sure that he sees that you take your spring tonic regularly."

"Mother," I pleaded, "don't you think it is time you were going? I
have a private lesson in sale embroidery in ten minutes that I
wouldn't miss for the world--the sweetest man teaches it!"

"Well, under the circumstances I won't keep you," said mother, "but
I'll write to the doctor just the same."

"Yes, do," I urged, "send it care of me so that he'll be sure to get
it."

Mother is not a restful creature in camp.


_April 9th._ "Say, there, you with the nose," cried my P.O. company
commander to-day, "are you with us or are you playing a little game of
your own?"

I wasn't so very wrong--just the slight difference between port and
present arms.

"With you, heart and soul," I replied, hoping to make a favorable
impression by a smart retort.

"That don't work in the manual," he replied; "use your brain and
ears."

Unnecessarily rough he was, but I don't know but what he wasn't right.

[Illustration: "I WASN'T SO VERY WRONG--JUST THE SLIGHT DIFFERENCE
BETWEEN PORT AND PRESENT ARMS"]


_April 10th._ I hear that I am going to be put on the mess crew. God
pity me, poor wretch! How shall I ever keep my hands from becoming
red? What a terrible war it is!


_April 11th._ Saw a basket ball game the other night. Never knew it
was so rough. I used to play it with the girls and we had such sport.
There seemed to be some reason for it then. There are a couple of
queer looking brothers on our team who seem to try utterly to demolish
their opponents. They remind me of a couple of tough gentlemen from
Scranton I heard about in a story once.


_April 12th._ The price of fags (gee! I'm getting rough) has gone up
again. This war is rapidly cramping my style.


_April 14th._ I have been too sick at heart to write up my diary--Eli
is dead! "Pop," the Jimmy-legs, found the body and has been promoted
to Chief Master-at-arms. It's an ill wind that blows no good. I
don't know whether it was because he found Eli or because he runs one
of the most modernly managed mess halls in camp or because his working
parties are always well attended that "Pop" received his appointment,
but whatever it was it does my heart good to see a real seagoing old
salt, one of our few remaining ex-apprentice boys, receive recognition
that is so well merited. However, I was on much more intimate terms
with Eli when I was over in Probation Camp than I was with "Pop." He
almost had me in his clutches once for late hammocks, me and eight
other poor victims I had led into the trouble, and he had our
wheelbarrows all picked out for us, and a nice large pile of sand for
us to play with when fate interceded in our behalf. The poor man
nearly cried out of sheer anguish of soul, and I can't justly blame
him. It's hard lines to have a nice fat extra duty party go dead on
your hands.

But with Eli it was different. When I was a homeless rookie he took me
in and I fed him--cigarette butts--and I'll honestly say that he
showed more genuine appreciation than many a flapper I have plied with
costly viands. He was a good goat, Eli. Not a refined goat, to be
sure, but a good, honest, whole-souled goat just the same. He did his
share in policing the grounds, never shirked a cigar end or a bit of
paper and amused many a mess gear line. He was loyal to his friends,
tolerant with new recruits and a credit to the service in general.
Considering the environment in which he lived, I think he deported
himself with much dignity and moderation. I for one shall miss Eli.
Some of the happier memories of my rookie days die with him. He is
survived by numerous dogs.


_April 25th._ Yesterday I wandered around Probation Camp in a very
patronizing manner and finally stopped to shed a tear on the humble
grave of Eli.

"Poor sinful goat," I thought sadly, "here you lie at last in your
final resting place, but your phantom, I wonder, does it go coursing
madly down the Milky Way, butting the stars aside with its
battle-scarred head and sending swift gleams of light through the
heavens as its hoofs strike against an upturned planet? Your horns,
are they tipped with fire and your beard gloriously aflame, or has the
great evil spirit of Wayward Goats descended upon you and borne you
away to a place where there is never anything to butt save
unsatisfactorily yielding walls of padded cotton? Many changes have
taken place, Eli, since you were with us, much adversity has befallen
me, but the world in the large is very much the same. Bill and Mike
have been shipped to sea and strange enough to say, old Spike Kelly
has made the Quartermasters School. I alone of all the gang remain
unspoken for--nobody seems anxious to avail themselves of my services.
My tapes are dirtier and my white hat grows less "sea-going" every day
and even you, Eli, are being forgotten. The company commander still
carols sweetly in the morning about "barrackses" and fire
"distinguishers," rookies still continue to rook about the camp in
their timid, mild-eyed way, while week-old sailors with unwashed