“My, what a dirty sailor you are, to be sure,” they said to me from the depth of their plump complacency.

“Quite so,” I gasped, falling into a chair, “I seem to remember having heard the same thing once before to-day.”

June 25th. Neither Saturday nor Sunday was a complete success and for a while Saturday afternoon assumed the proportions of a disaster.  After having rested from my climb, I decided to wash my Whites so that I wouldn’t be arrested as a deserter or be thrown into the brig upon checking in.  The fat people on learning of my intentions decided that the sight of such labor would tire them beyond endurance, so they departed, leaving me in solitary possession of their flat.  I thereupon removed my jumper, humped my back over the tub, scrubbed industriously until the garment was white, then hastened roofwards and arranged it prettily on the line.  This accomplished, I hurried down, removed my trousers, rehumped my back over the tub, scrubbed industriously until the trousers in turn were white and once more dashed roofwards.  I have always been absent minded, but never to such an appalling extent as to appear clad only in my scanty underwear in the midst of a mixed throng of ladies, gentlemen and children.  This I did.  Some venturous souls had claimed the roof as their own during my absence so that when I sprang from the final step to claim my place in the sun I found myself by no means alone.  With a cry of horror I leaped to the other side of the clothes-line and endeavored to conceal myself behind an old lady’s petticoat or a lady’s old petticoat or something of that nature.  Whoever wore the thing must have been a very short person indeed, for the garment reached scarcely down to my knees, below which my B.V.D.’s fluttered in an intriguing manner.

“Sir,” thundered a pompous gentleman, “have you any explanation for your surprising conduct?”

“Several,” I replied briskly from behind my only claim on respectability.  “In the first place, I didn’t expect an audience.  In the second—­”

“That will do, sir,” broke in this heavy person in a quarterdeck voice.  “Who, may I ask, are you?”

“You may,” I replied.  “I’m a God-fearing sailor man who is doing the best he can to keep nice and clean in spite of the uncalled for intervention of a red-faced oaf of a plumber person who should know better than to stand around watching him.”

[Illustration:  “I’M A GOD-FEARING SAILOR MAN WHO IS DOING THE BEST HE CAN TO KEEP CLEAN”]

“Don’t take on so, George,” said one of the women whom I suspected of edging around in order to get a better view of me, “the poor young man is a sailor—­where is your patriotism?”

“Yes,” broke in the other woman, edging around on the other side, “he’s one of our sailor boys.  Treat him nice.”

“Patriotic, I am,” roared George wrathfully, “but not to the extent of condoning and looking lightly upon such a flagrant breach of decency as this semi-nude, so-called sailor has committed in our midst.”