voice, "what do you want me to do with it?"
"With what?" I replied, enraged, "with my chest?"

"No," he answered easily, "not your chest, but that one poor little
pitiful hair that adorns it. Do you want me to send it home to your
ma, all tied around with a pink ribbon?"

I saw no reason to reply to this insult, but stood uneasily and tried
to maintain my dignity while he lathered me with undue elaboration.
When it was time for him to produce his razor he faltered.

"I can't do it," he said brokenly, "I haven't the heart to cut it down
in its prime. It looks so lonely and helpless there by itself." He
swept his razor around several times with a free-handed,
blood-curdling swoop of his arm. "Well, here goes," he said, shutting
his eyes and approaching me. Tony turned away as if unable to witness
the scene. I was unnerved, but I stood my ground. The deed was done
and I was at last free to depart. "That's a terrible chest for a Show
Girl," I heard him to say to Tony as I did so.


_May 29th._ The world has come clattering down around my ears and I am
buried, crushed and bruised beneath the debris. There was a dress
rehearsal to-day, and I, from the whole company, was singled out for
the wrath of the gods.

"Who is that chorus girl on the end acting frantic?" cried out one of
the directors in the middle of a number. My name was shouted across
the stage until it echoed and resounded and came bounding back in my
face from every corner of the shadow-plunged theater. I knew I was in
for it and drew myself up majestically although I turned pale under my
war paint.

"Well, tell him he isn't walking on stilts," continued the director,
and although it was perfectly unnecessary, I was told that and several
other things with brutal candor. The dance went on but I knew the eyes
of the director were on me. My legs seemed to lose all proper
coordination. My arms became unmanageable. I lost step and could not
pick it up again, yet, as in a nightmare, I struggled on desperately.
Suddenly the director clapped his hands. The music ceased, and I
slowed down to an uneasy shuffle.

"Sweetheart," said the director, addressing me personally, "you're not
dancing. You're swimming, that's what you're doing. As a Persian girl
you would make a first class squaw." He halted for a moment and then
bawled out in a great voice, "Understudy!" and I was removed from the
stage in a fainting condition. This evening I was shipped back to
camp a thoroughly discredited Show Girl. I had labored long in
vicious, soul-squelching corsets and like Samson been shorn of my
locks, and here I am after all my sacrifices relegated back to the
scrap heap. Why am I always the unfortunate one? I must have a private
plot in the sky strewn with unlucky stars. Camp routine after the free
life of the stage is unbearably irksome. My particular jimmy legs was
so glad to see me back that he almost cried as he thrust a broom and a
swab into my hands.

"Bear a hand," he said gleefully, "get to work and stick to it. We're
short of men," he added, "and there is no end of things for you to
do."

I did them all and he was right. There surely is no end to the things
he can devise for me to do. I long for the glamour and footlights of
the gay white way, but I have been cast out and rejected as many a
Show Girl has been before me.


_June 1st._ The morning papers say all sort of nice things about
Biff-Bang but I can hardly believe them sincere after the treatment I
received. I know for a fact that the man who took my place was
knock-kneed and that the rest of his figure could not hold a candle to
mine.

I still feel convinced that Biff-Bang lost one of its most
prepossessing and talented artists when I was so unceremoniously
removed from the chorus.


_June 10th._ I was standing doing harm to no one in a vague, rather
unfortunate way I have, when all of a sudden, without word or warning,
a very competent looking sailor seized me by the shoulders and,
thrusting his face close to mine, cried out:

"Do you want to make a name for yourself in the service?"

I left the ground two feet below me in my fright and when I alighted
there were tears of eagerness in my eyes.

"Yes," I replied breathlessly, "oh, sir, yes."

"Then pick up that," he cried dramatically, pointing to a cigar butt
on the parade ground. I didn't wait for the laughter. I didn't have
to. It was forthcoming immediately. Huge peals of it. Sailors are a
very low tribe of vertebrate. They seem to hang around most of the
time waiting for something to laugh at--usually me. It is my belief
that I have been the subject of more mirth since I came to camp than
any other man on the station. Whatever I do I seem to do it too much
or too little. There even seems to be something mirth-provoking in my
personal appearance, which I have always regarded hitherto not without
a certain shade of satisfaction. Only the other day I caught the eyes
of the gloomiest sailor in camp studying me with a puzzled expression.
He gazed at me for such a long time that I became quite disconcerted.
Slowly a smile spread over his face, then a strange, rusty laugh
forced itself through his lips.

"Doggone if I can solve it," he chuckled, turning away and shaking his
head; "it's just simply too much for me."

He looked back once, clapped his hands over his mouth and proceeded
merrily on his way. I am glad of course to be able to bring joy into
the lives of sailors, but I did not enlist for that sole purpose.
Returning to the cigar butt, however, I was really quite disappointed.
I do so want to make a name for myself in the service that I would
eagerly jump at the chance of sailing up the Kiel canal in a Barnegat
Sneak Box were it not for the fact that sailing always makes me
deathly sick. I don't know why it is, but the more I have to do with
water the more reasons I find for shunning it. The cigar butt episode
broke my heart though. I was all keyed up for some heroic deed--what
an anti-climax! I left the spot in a bitter, humiliated mood. There is
only one comforting part about the whole affair--I did not pick up
that cigar butt. He did, I'll bet, though when nobody was looking. I
don't know as I blame him--there were still several healthy drags left
in it.


_June 11th._ This war is going to put a lot of Chinamen out of
business if it keeps up much longer. The first thing a sailor will do
after he has been paid off will be to establish a laundry, and he
won't be a slouch at the business at that. I feel sure that I am
qualified right now to take in family laundry and before the end of
summer I guess I'll be able to do fancy work. At present I am what
you might call a first class laundryman, but I'm not a fancy
laundryman yet. Since they've put us in whites I go around with the
washer-woman's complaint most of the time. Terrible shooting pains in
my back! My sympathy for the downtrodden is increasing by leaps and
bounds. I can picture myself without any effort of the imagination
bending over a tub after the war doing the family washing while my
wife is out running for alderman or pulling the wires to be appointed
Commissioner of the Docks. The white clothes situation, however, is
serious. It seems that every spare moment I have I am either washing
or thinking of washing or just after having washed, and to one who
possesses as I do the uncanny faculty of being able to get dirtier in
more places in the shortest space of time than any ten street children
picked at random could ever equal, life presents one long vista of
soap and suds.

[Illustration: "THIS WAR IS GOING TO PUT A LOT OF CHINAMEN OUT OF
BUSINESS"]

"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.

[Illustration: "I STOOD SIDE-WAYS, THUS DECREASING THE POSSIBLE AREA
OF DANGER"]

"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."

[Illustration: "I'M A GOD-FEARING SAILOR MAN WHO IS DOING THE BEST HE
CAN TO KEEP CLEAN"]

"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.

[Illustration: "I TOOK HIM AROUND AND INTRODUCED HIM TO THE REST OF
THE DOGS AND SEVERAL OF THE BETTER SORT OF GOATS"]

"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.

[Illustration: "I RESUMED MY SLUMBER, BUT NOT WITH MUCH COMFORT"]


_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,