The departure was moist, but I managed to swim through.  I am too excited to read the paper and too rattle-brained to think except in terrified snatches.  I wonder if I look different.  People seem to be regarding me sympathetically.  I recognize two faces on this train.  One belongs to Tony, the iceman on our block; the other belongs to one named Tim, a barkeep, if I recall rightly, in a hotel I have frequently graced with my presence.  I hope their past friendship was not due to professional reasons.  It would be nice to talk over old times with them in camp, for I have frequently met the one in the morning after coming home from the other.

[Illustration:  “THE DEPARTURE WAS MOIST”]

March 1st. Subjected myself to the intimate scrutiny of another doctor this morning.  I used my very best Turkish bath manners.  They failed to impress him.  Hospital apprentice treated me to a shot of Pelham “hop.”  It is taken in the customary manner, through the arm—­very stimulating.  A large sailor held me by the hand for fully fifteen minutes.  Very embarrassing!  He made pictures of my fingers and completely demolished my manicure.  From there I passed on to another room.  Here a number of men threw clothes at me from all directions.  The man with the shoes was a splendid shot.  I am now a sailor—­at least, superficially.  My trousers were built for Charlie Chaplin.  I feel like a masquerade.

[Illustration:  “HOSPITAL APPRENTICE TREATED ME TO A SHOT OF PELHAM ‘HOP’”]

[Illustration:  “I FEEL LIKE A MASQUERADE”]

A gang of recruits shouted “twenty-one days” at me as I was being led to Mess Hall No. 1.  The poor simps had just come in the day before and had not even washed their leggings yet.  I shall shout at other recruits to-morrow, though, the same thing that they shouted at me to-day.

Our P.O. is a very terrifying character.  He is a stern but just man, I take it.

He can tie knots and box the compass and say “pipe down” and everything.  Gee, it must be nice to be a real sailor!

[Illustration:  “THIS, I THOUGHT, WAS ADDING INSULT TO INJURY”]

March 2d. Fell out of my hammock last night and momentarily interrupted the snoring contest holding sway.  I was told to “pipe down” in Irish, Yiddish, Third Avenue and Bronx.  This, I thought, was adding insult to injury, but could not make any one take the same view of it.  I hope the thing does not become a habit with me.  I form habits so readily.  In connection with snoring I have written the following song which I am going to send home to Polly.  I wrote it in the Y.M.C.A.  Hut this afternoon while crouching between the feet of two embattled checker players.  I’m going to call it “The Rhyme of the Snoring Sailor.”  It goes like this: 

   I

   The mother thinks of her sailor son
   As clutched in the arms of war,
   But mother should listen, as I have done,
   To this same little, innocent sailor son
   Sprawl in his hammock and snore.