“Where’s our yeoman?” he grumbled, at which the yeoman, who somehow reminded me of some character from one of Dickens’s novels, edged out of the door, but he was too late.  Spying him, the editor launched forth on a violent denunciation, in which for no particular reason the cartoonist and sporting editor joined.  There they stood, the three of them, abusing this poor simple yeoman in the most unnecessary manner as far as I could make out.  Three harder cut-throats I have never encountered.  While in the office, I came upon a rather elderly artist crouched over in a corner writhing as if he was in great pain.  He was in the throes of composition, I was told, and he looked it.  Poor wretch, he seemed to have something on his mind.  The only man I saw who seemed to have anything like a balanced mind was the financial shark, a little ferret-eyed, onery-looking cuss whom I wouldn’t have trusted out of my sight.  He was sitting with his nose thrust in some dusty volume totally oblivious of the pandemonium that reigned around him.  He either has a great mind or none at all—­probably the latter.  I fear I would never make an editor.  The atmosphere is simply altogether too strenuous for me.

May 4th. There seems to be no place in the service for me; I cannot decide what rating to select.  To be a quartermaster one must know how to signal, and signaling always tires my arms.  One must know how to blow a horrid shrill little whistle in order to become a boatswain mate, and my ears could never stand this.  To be a yeoman, it is necessary to know how to rattle papers in an important manner and disseminate misinformation with a straight face, and this I could never do.  I fear the only thing left for me is to try for a commission.  I’m sure I would be a valuable addition to any wardroom.

May 6th. “Man the drags!  Hey, there, you flannel-footed camel, stop galloping!  What are you doing, anyway—­playing horses?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I cried out, hot with rage and humiliation; “you know perfectly well I’m not playing horse.  I realize as well as you do that this is a serious—­”

At this juncture of my brave retort a gun barrel stove in the back of my head, some one kicked me on the shin and in some indescribable manner the butt of a rifle became entangled between my feet, and down I went in a cloud of dust and oaths.  One-fourth of the entire Pelham field artillery passed over my body, together with its crew, while through the roar and confusion raised by this horrible cataclysm I could hear innumerable C.P.O.’s howling and blackguarding me in frenzied tones, and I dimly distinguished their forms dancing in rage amid descending billows of dust.  The parade ground swirled dizzily around me, but I had no desire to arise and begin life anew.  It would not be worth while.  I felt that I had at the most only a short time to live, and that that was too long.  The world offered nothing but the most horrifying possibilities to me.  “What