“What would you do if you were at the wheel in a dense fog and you heard three whistles on your port beam, four whistles off the starboard bow, and a prolonged toot dead ahead?”

“I would still remain in a dense fog,” I gasped in a low voice.

“Speak up!” snapped the officer.

“Full speed ahead and jumps,” whispered a guy next to me.  It sounded reasonable.  I seized upon it eagerly.

“I’d put full steam ahead and jump, sir,” I replied.

“Are you mad?” shouted the amazed officer.

“No, sir,” I hastened to assure him, “only profoundly perplexed.  I think, sir, that I would go into a conference, under the circumstances.”

The officer seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.

“What’s your name?” asked another officer suddenly.

I told him.

“Initials?”

I told him.  He looked at the paper for a moment.

“That explains it,” he said with a sigh of relief, “you’re not the man.  There has been some mistake.  Orderly, take this man away and bring back the right one.  Pronto!”

That Spanish stuff sounds awfully sea-going.  I was taken away, but the officer had not yet recovered.  He regarded me with an expression of profound disgust.  Anyway I created a sensation.

[Illustration:  “‘I WOULD STILL REMAIN IN A DENSE FOG,’ I GASPED IN A LOW VOICE”]

Sept. 4th. Things have been happening with overwhelming rapidity.  On the strength of being properly engaged to Polly, my permanent sweetie, I went to my Regimental commander this morning and applied for a furlough.  He regarded me pityingly for a moment and then carefully scanned a list of names on the desk before him.

“I am sorry,” he said finally, “but not only am I not able to grant your request, but I have the unpleasant duty to inform you that you are a little less than forty-eight hours from the vicinity of Ambrose light.”

“Shipped!” I gasped as the world swam around me.

“Your name is on this list,” said the officer not unkindly.

“Shipped!” I repeated in a dazed voice.

“It does seem ridiculous, I’ll admit,” said the officer, smiling, “but you never can tell what strange things are going to happen in the Navy.  If I were in your place I’d take advantage of this head start I have given you and get my clothes and sea-bag in some sort of condition.  If I remember rightly, you have never been able successfully to achieve this since you’ve been in the service.”

“Thank you, sir,” I gasped, and bolted.  In my excitement I ran violently into a flock of ensigns stalking across the parade ground.

“I’m going to be shipped,” I cried by way of explanation to one of them as he arose wrathfully.

“You’re going to be damned,” said he, and I was.  Too frantic to write more.

Sept. 5th. All preparations have been made.  Tim, Tony and the Spider are going too.  I have just been listening to the most disturbing conversation.  It all arose from our speculating as to our probable destination and the nature of our services.  The Master-at-arms, who had been sleeping on the hammock rack as only a Master-at-arms can, permitted himself to remain awake long enough to join in.