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 leggins delight their simple souls with cries of ‘twenty-one days.’  New goats have sprung up to take your place in the life of the camp and belittle your past achievements, but to me, O unregenerate goat, you shall ever remain a refreshing memory.  Good butting, O excellent ruminant, wherever thou should chance to be.  I salute you.”