At one restaurant we ran into a female whose hair was nearly as short as Fogerty’s.  She was holding forth on the Silence of the Soul vs. the Love Impulse, the cabbage or some other plant.  Fogerty listened to her for a while and then bit her.  He did it quietly, but I thought it best to take him away.

After supper we went up to another place for coffee, a fine little place for sailormen, situated on the south side of the square.  Here we were received with winning cordiality and Fogerty was given a fried egg, a dish of which he is passionately fond.  But even here he got into trouble by putting one of his great feet through a Ukulele, which isn’t such a terrible thing to do, except in certain places.

Getting back to the station was a crisp little affair.  Fogerty and myself rose at five and went forth to the shuttle.  The subway was a madhouse.  We shuttled ourselves to death.  At 5.30 we were at the Times Square end of the shuttle, at 5.45 we were at Williams, at 6 o’clock we had somehow managed to get ourselves on the east side end of the shuttle, five minutes later we were back at Times Square, ten minutes later we were over on the east side once more.  At 6.15 I lost Fogerty.  At 6.25 I was back at Times Square.  “Hello, buddy,” said the guard, “you back again?  Here’s your dog.”

At 7 o’clock we were at Van Cortlandt Park, at 8 we were at Ninety-sixth Street, 9 o’clock found us laboring up to the gate of the camp, with a written list of excuses that looked like the schedule of a flourishing railroad.  It was accepted, much to our surprise.

Aug. 7th. I have a perfectly splendid idea.  Of course, like the rest of my ideas it won’t work, but it is a perfectly splendid idea for all that.  I got it while traveling on the ferry boat from New York to Staten Island—­the longest sea voyage I have had since I joined the Navy.  On this trip, strangely thrilling to a sailor in my situation, but which was suffered with bored indifference by the amphibious commuters that infest this Island in those waters, I saw a number of ships so gaudily and at the same time so carelessly painted that any God-fearing skipper of the Spanish Main would positively have refused to command.  Captain Kidd himself would have blushed at the very sight of this ribald fleet and turned away with a devout imprecation.

This was my first experience with camouflage, and it impressed me most unfavorably.  An ordinary ship on a grumbling ocean is difficult enough as it is to establish friendly relations with, but when trigged out in this manner—­why serve meals at all, say I. Nevertheless it occurred to me that it would not be a bad idea at all to camouflage one’s hammock in such a manner that it took upon itself the texture and appearance of the bulkhead of the barracks in which it was swung.  In this manner a sailor could sleep undisturbed for three weeks if he so desired (and he does), without ever being technically considered a deserter.