or the Presence of
the Conductorette that Causes So Many Sailors to Wear Out Their Seats
Riding Back and Forth, and So Many Unnecessary Fares to Be Rung Up in
So Doing?"

His conversation with "Mame," his light-o'-love, was conducted along
this line:

"Say, Mame."

"Yes, George, dear (fare, please, madam). What does tweetums want?"

"You look swell in your new uniform."

"Oh, Georgie, do you think it fits? (Yes, madam, positively, the car
was brushed this morning, your baby will be perfectly safe inside.)"

"Mame."

"George! (Step forward, please.) Go on, dear."

"Mame, it's doggon hard to talk to you here." "Isn't it just! (What
is it lady? Cabbage? Oh, baggage! No, no, you can't check baggage
here; this isn't a regular train.) George, stop holding my hand! I
can't make change!"

"Aw, Mame, who do you love?"

"Why, tweetums, I love--(plenty of room up forward! Don't jam up the
door) you, of course. (Fare, please! Fare, please! Have your change
ready!)"

"Can't we get a moment alone, Mame?"

"Yes, dear; wait until twelve-thirty, and we'll drive to the car barn
then. (Transfers! Transfers!)"

"Spike" says that his liberty was his first actual touch with the
horrors of war.

Another bird that lived in some remote corner of New York State told
me in pitiful tones that all he had time to do was to walk down the
street of his home town, shake hands with the Postmaster, lean over
the fence and kiss his girl (it had to go two ways, Hello and
Good-by), take a package of clean underwear from his mother as he
passed by and catch the outbound train on the dead run. All he could
do was to wave to the seven other inhabitants. He thought the Grand
Central Terminal was a swell dump, though. He said: "There was quite a
lot of it," which is true.

As for myself, I think it best to pass lightly over most of the
incidents of my own personal liberty. The best part of a diary is that
one can show up one's friends to the exclusion of oneself. Anyway, why
put down the happenings of the past forty-three hours? They are
indelibly stamped on my memory. One sight I vividly recall, "Ardy"
Muggins, the multi-son of Muggins who makes the automatic clothes
wranglers. He was sitting in a full-blooded roadster in front of the
Biltmore, and the dear boy was dressed this wise ("Ardy" is a sailor,
too, I forgot to mention): There was a white hat on his head; covering
and completely obliterating his liberty blues was a huge bearskin