“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.