July 1st. This day I almost succeeded in sinking myself for the final count.  The fishes around about the environs of City Island were disappointed beyond words when I came up for the fourth time and stayed up.  In my delirium I imagined that school had been let out in honor of my reception and that all the pretty little fishes were sticking around in expectant groups cheering loudly at the thought of the conclusion of their meatless days.  Fortunately for the Navy, however, I cheated them and saved myself in order to scrub many more hammocks and white clothes, an object to which I seem to have dedicated my life.

It all come about, as do most drowning parties, in quite an unexpected manner.  For some reason it had been arranged that I should take a swim over at one of the emporiums at City Island, and, as I interposed no objections, I accordingly departed with my faithful Mr. Fogerty tumbling along at my heels.  Since Mr. Fogerty involved me in trouble the other day by barking at the Jimmy-legs he has endeavored in all possible ways to make up for his thoughtless irregularity.  For instance, he met me this morning with an almost brand new shoe which in some manner he had managed to pick up in his wanderings.  It fits perfectly, and if he only succeeds in finding the mate to it I shall probably not look for the owner.  As a further proof of his good will Mr. Fogerty bit, or attempted to bite, a P.O. who spoke to me roughly regarding the picturesque way I was holding my gun.

“Whose dog is that?” demanded the P.O.

Silence in the ranks.  Mr. Fogerty looked defiantly at him for a moment and then trotted deliberately over and sat down upon my foot.

“Oh, so he belongs to you!” continued the P.O. in a threatening voice.

“No, sir,” I faltered; “you see, it isn’t that way at all.  I belong to Mr. Fogerty.”

“Who in—­who in—­who is Mr. Fogerty?” shouted the P.O.  “And how in—­how in—­how did he happen to get into the conversation?”

“Why, this is Mr. Fogerty,” I replied; “this dog here, sitting on my foot.”

“Oh, is that so?” jeered the P.O., a man noted for his quick retorts.  “Well, you take your silly looking dog away from here and secure him in some safe place.  He ain’t no fit associate for our camp dogs.  And, furthermore,” he added, “the next time Mr. Fogerty attempts to bite me I’m going to put you on report—­savez?”

Mr. Fogerty is almost as much of a comfort in camp as mother.

Well, that’s another something else again and has nothing to do with my swim and approximate drowning at City Island.  Swimming has always been one of my strong points, and I have taken in the past no little pride in my appearance, not only in a bathing outfit, but also in the water.  However, the suit they provided me with on this occasion did not show me up in a very alluring light.  It was quite large and evidently built according to a model of the early