"But I ain't saying as I have ever seen a mermaid," he said, turning
back in his tracks, "all I'm saying is that--"
"I know, Chief," I said wearily, "I fully appreciate your delicacy and
fairness. You're not the man to make any false claims."
"No, sir, not I," he replied, as he walked slowly away.
_August 5th._ In order to distract Mr. Fogerty's attention from his
love affair and in a sort of desperate endeavor to win him back to me
I took him away on my last liberty with me. Fogerty doesn't come under
the heading of a lap dog, but through some technical quibble I managed
to smuggle him into the subway. All he did there was to knock over one
elderly lady and lick her face effusively when he had gotten her down.
This resulted in a small but complete panic. For the most part,
however, he sat quietly on my lap and sniffed at those around him. At
last we reached Washington Square, whereupon I proceeded to take Mr.
Fogerty around and show him off to my friends. He was well received,
but his heart wasn't with us. It was far away in City Island.
[Illustration: "FOR THE MOST PART, HOWEVER, HE SAT QUIETLY ON MY LAP
AND SNIFFED"]
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.
One could elaborate this idea still further and make one's sea bag
look like a clump of poison ivy, so that no inspecting officer would
ever care to become intimate with its numerous defects in cleanliness.
One might even go so far as to camouflage oneself into a writing desk
so that when visiting the "Y" or the "K-C" and unexpectedly required
to sing one would not be forced to rise and scream impatiently and
threateningly "Dear Mother Mine" or "Break the News to Mother." Not
that these songs are not things of rare beauty in themselves, but
after a day on the coal pile one's lungs have been sufficiently
exercised to warrant relief. This is merely an idea of mine, and now
that everybody knows about it I guess there isn't much use in going
ahead with it.
_Aug. 8th._ "This guide i-s l-e-f-t!" shouted the P.O., and naturally
I looked around to see what had become of the poor fellow.
"Keep your head straight. Eyes to the front! Don't move! Whatcha
lookin' at?"
"I was looking for the guide that was left," says I timidly. "It seems
to me that he is always being left."
"Company dismissed," said the P.O. promptly, showing a wonderful
command of the situation under rather trying circumstances, for the
boo-hoo that went up from the men after my remark defied all
restraints of discipline.
"Say, Biltmore," says the P.O. to me a moment later, "I'm going to see
if I can't get you shipped to Siberia if you pull one of them bum
jokes again. You understand?"
"But I wasn't joking," I replied innocently.
"Aw go on, you sly dog," said he, nudging me in the ribs, and for some
strange reason he departed in high good humor, leaving me in a greatly
mystified frame of mind.
Speaking of getting shipped, I have just written a very sad song in
the style of the old sentimental ballads of the Spanish war days. It's
called "The Sailor's Farewell," and I think Polly will like it. I
haven't polished it up yet, but here it is as it is:
A sailor to his mother came and said, "Oh, mother dear,
I got to go away and fight the war.
So, mother, don't you cry too hard, and don't you have no fear
When you find that I'm not sticking 'round no more."
"My boy," the sweet old lady said, "I hate to see you go.
I've knowed you since when you was but a kid,
But if the question you should ask, I'll tell the whole world so--
It's the only decent thing you ever did."
A tear she brushed aside,
And then she sadly cried: