“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.”