r
unfortunate way I have, when all of a sudden, without word or warning,
a very competent looking sailor seized me by the shoulders and,
thrusting his face close to mine, cried out:

"Do you want to make a name for yourself in the service?"

I left the ground two feet below me in my fright and when I alighted
there were tears of eagerness in my eyes.

"Yes," I replied breathlessly, "oh, sir, yes."

"Then pick up that," he cried dramatically, pointing to a cigar butt
on the parade ground. I didn't wait for the laughter. I didn't have
to. It was forthcoming immediately. Huge peals of it. Sailors are a
very low tribe of vertebrate. They seem to hang around most of the
time waiting for something to laugh at--usually me. It is my belief
that I have been the subject of more mirth since I came to camp than
any other man on the station. Whatever I do I seem to do it too much
or too little. There even seems to be something mirth-provoking in my
personal appearance, which I have always regarded hitherto not without
a certain shade of satisfaction. Only the other day I caught the eyes
of the gloomiest sailor in camp studying me with a puzzled expression.
He gazed at me for such a long time that I became quite disconcerted.
Slowly a smile spread over his face, then a strange, rusty laugh
forced itself through his lips.

"Doggone if I can solve it," he chuckled, turning away and shaking his
head; "it's just simply too much for me."

He looked back once, clapped his hands over his mouth and proceeded
merrily on his way. I am glad of course to be able to bring joy into
the lives of sailors, but I did not enlist for that sole purpose.
Returning to the cigar butt, however, I was really quite disappointed.
I do so want to make a name for myself in the service that I would
eagerly jump at the chance of sailing up the Kiel canal in a Barnegat
Sneak Box were it not for the fact that sailing always makes me
deathly sick. I don't know why it is, but the more I have to do with
water the more reasons I find for shunning it. The cigar butt episode
broke my heart though. I was all keyed up for some heroic deed--what
an anti-climax! I left the spot in a bitter, humiliated mood. There is
only one comforting part about the whole affair--I did not pick up
that cigar butt. He did, I'll bet, though when nobody was looking. I
don't know as I blame him--there were still several healthy drags left
in it.

_June 11th._ This war is going to put a