“Yes,” he replied, “the slandering blackguard.”

“You hit me on the nose with a push-ball,” said I.

“I’ll do it again,” said he.

“That reporter, evidently a man of some observation, said you didn’t wash your neck and that you had the habits of a camel.”

“But I do wash my neck,” he said, stubbornly, “and I don’t know anything about the habits of a camel, but whatever they might happen to be, I haven’t got ’em.”

“Yes,” I replied, as if to myself, “you certainly should wash your neck.  That’s the very least you could do.”

“But I tell you,” he cried, desperately, “I keep telling you that I do wash my neck.  Why do you go on talking about it as if I didn’t!  I tell you now, once for all time, that I do wash my neck, and that ends it.  Don’t talk any more.  I want to think.”

We sat in silence for a space, then I remarked casually, almost inaudibly, “and you certainly shouldn’t have the habits of a camel.”

The depraved creature stirred uneasily.  “I ain’t got ’em,” he said.

“Good,” I cried heartily.  “We understand each other perfectly.  In the future you will try to wash your neck and cease from having the habits of a camel.  No compromise is necessary.  I know you will keep your word.”

“Go away quickly,” he gasped, searching around for a stone to hurl at me, and discarding several because of their small size.  “Go away to somewhere else.  I’m telling you now, go away or else a special detail will find your lifeless body here in the bushes some time to-morrow.”

“I’ve already been thoroughly killed several times to-day,” I said, putting a tree between us, “but don’t forget about the camel, and for heaven’s sake do try to keep your neck—­”

A stone hit the tree with a resounding crack, and I increased the distance.

“Damn the torpedoes!” I shouted back as I disappeared into the pleasant security of the sun-warmed woods.

May 11th. “What navy do you belong to?” asked an Ensign, stopping me to-day, “the Chinese?”

“Why do you ask, sir?” I replied, saluting gracefully.  “Of course I don’t belong to the Chinese Navy.”

“What’s your rating?” he snapped.  “Show girl first class attached to the good ship Biff!  Bang! sir,” came my prompt retort.

“Well, put a watch mark on your arm, sailor, and put it there pronto, or you’ll be needing an understudy to pinch hit for you.”

As a matter of fact I have never put my watch mark on, for the simple reason that I have been rather expecting a rating at any moment, but it seems as if my expectations were doomed to disappointment.

Nothing matters much, anyway, now, however, for I have been selected from among all the men in the station to play the part of a Show Girl in the coming magnificent Pelham production, “Biff!  Bang!” At last I have found the occupation to which by training and inclination I am naturally adapted.  The Grand Moguls that are running this show came around the barracks the other day looking for material, and when they gazed upon me I felt sure that their search had not been in vain.