“Never have I seen a more unpromising candidate in all my past experience,” said the doctor moodily when I presented myself before him, and thereupon he proceeded to punch me in the ribs with a vigor that seemed to be more personal than professional.  When thoroughly exhausted from this he gave up and led me to the eye charts, which I read with infinite ease through long practise in following the World Series in front of newspaper buildings.

“Eyes all right,” he said in a disappointed voice.  “It must be your feet.”

These proved to be faultless, as were my ears and teeth.

“You baffle me,” said the doctor at last, thoroughly discouraged.  “Apparently you are sound all over, yet, looking at you, I fail to see how it is possible.”

I wondered vaguely if he was paid by the rejection.  Then for no particular reason he suddenly tired of me and left me with all my golden youth and glory standing unnoticed in a corner.  From here I observed an applicant being put through his ear test.  This game is played as follows:  a hospital apprentice thrusts one finger into the victim’s ear while the doctor hurries down to the end of the room and whispers tragically words that the applicant must repeat.  It’s a good game, but this fellow I was watching evidently didn’t know the rules and he was taking no chances.

“Now repeat what I say,” said the doctor.

“‘Now repeat what I say,’” quoted the recruit.

“No, no, not now,” cried the doctor.  “Wait till I whisper.”

“‘No, no, not now.  Wait till I whisper,’” answered the recruit, faithfully accurate.

“Wait till I whisper, you blockhead,” shouted the doctor.

“‘Wait till I whisper, you blockhead,’” shouted the recruit with equal heat.

“Oh, God!” cried the doctor despairingly.

“‘Oh, God!’” repeated the recruit in a mournful voice.

This little drama of cross purposes might have continued indefinitely had not the hospital apprentice begun to punch the guy in the ribs, shouting as he did so: 

“Wait a minute, can’t you?”

At which the recruit, a great hulk of a fellow, delivered the hospital apprentice a resounding blow in the stomach and turned indignantly to the doctor.

“That man’s interfering,” he said in an injured voice.  “Now that ain’t fair, is it, doc?”

“You pass,” said the doctor briefly, producing his handkerchief and mopping his brow.

“Well, what are you standing around for?” he said a moment later, spying me in my corner.

“Oh, doctor,” I cried, delighted, “I thought you had forgotten me.”

“No,” said the doctor, “I’ll never forget you.  You pass.  Take your papers and clear out.”

I can now feel with a certain degree of security that I am in the Navy.

Feb. 26th. I broke the news to mother to-day and she took it like a little gentleman, only crying on twelve different occasions.  I had estimated it much higher than that.