"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.
"I wouldn't be at all surprised," said he, "if you were shipped to
one of these new Submarine Provokers."
"What's that?" I asked uneasily.
"Why, it's a sort of a dee-coy," said he, stretching his huge hulk, "a
little, unarmed boat that goes messing around in the ocean until it
finds a submarine and then it provokes it."
"How's that?" asked Tim.
"Why, you see," continued the jimmy-legs, "it just sort of steams back
and forth in front of the submarine, just steams slowly back and forth
in front of the submarine until it provokes it."
"Ah!" said I, taking a deep breath.
"Yes," he continues cheerfully, "and the more you provoked the
submarine why the harder it shoots at you, so of course it doesn't
notice the real Submarine Sinker coming up behind it. See the
tactics."
"Oh," says I, "we just provoke the submarine until it loses its temper
and the other boat sinks it."
"That's it," says the jimmy-legs, "you just sort of steam back and
forth in front of it slowly."
"How slowly?" asks the Spider.
"Very," replied the jimmy-legs.
"No guns at all?" asks Tim.
"None," says he.
"A regular little home," suggests Tony.
"Sure," says the jimmy-legs, "nothing to do at all but steam slowly
back--"
"For God's sake don't dwell on that point any more!" I cried. "We
understand it perfectly."
"A regular lil' home," muttered Tim as he began to stow his bag.
(Later) I write these lines with horror. Some one has told me that the
Navy needs Powder tasters, something I'd never heard of before, and
that perhaps--that's what we are going to be used for. All you have to
do, this guy says, is to taste the powder to see if it's damp or dry
and if it's damp you take it away and bake it. This sounds worse than
the Submarine Provoker.
(Still later) Rumor is rife. The latest report is that we are going to
be Mine Openers.
"What's a Mine Opener?" I asked my informant.
"Why, it's a guy," says he, "that picks up the mines floating around
his boat, but only the German mines of course, and opens them to see
if they are as dangerous as they look. Some are not half as dangerous
as they look," he continues easily, "some are not quite so dangerous
and of course some are a great deal more so. But they are all
dangerous enough."
"My dear chap," I replied, turning away miserably, "a pinwheel is
quite dangerous enough for me."
_Sept. 6th._ This is being written from the gate. My bag and hammock
are beside me. Tim lashed them together for me so they wouldn't come
undone. We are waiting for the truck. Tony in his excitable way wants
to kiss the guard good-by. The guard doesn't want him to. My last
moments at Pelham have been hectic. The doctor said I looked one
hundred per cent better than when I came in, but that wasn't enough.
If you didn't look at me very closely you wouldn't know that I was
such an awful dub. This is progress at any rate. The telephone wires
between mother's house and the camp were dripping wet with tears when
I phoned her that I was being shipped. However, she braced up and said
she was proud of me and said she hoped I'd tell the captain good-by
and thank him for all he has done. I assured her I would do this, or
at least leave a note. Polly was a trump. The Spider talked to her and
said that he was going to save the best uncut stone for her that he
had ever bitten out of a ring. The Spider has been very valuable to us
all. He seems to have the uncanny faculty of being able to take the
cloth straps off other people's clothes right before their eyes.
Consequently we are well supplied. At present he's looking at the
handle of the gate in a musing way. I think he would like to have it
as a souvenir. Here comes the truck. Pelham is about to lose its most
useless recruit. I must tuck these priceless pages in my money belt.
Wish I had a picture of Polly. Well, here's to the High Adventure, but
there's something about that Submarine Provoker I can't quite get used
to. It seems just a trifle one sided. However, that is in the lap of
the gods. Instead of a camp I will soon have the vast expanses of the
ocean in which to demonstrate my tremendous inability to emulate the
example of one John Paul Jones.
"Bear a hand there, buddy," the P.O. has just cried at me.
"Buddy" I came in and "buddy" I go out. We're off! I can dimly
distinguish Mr. Fogerty, that unscrupulous dog that abandoned my bed
and board for a couple of influential yeomen. Farewell, Fogerty, may
your evil ways never bring you to grief. I do wish I had a picture of
my Sweetie.
[Illustration: "'BUDDY' I CAME IN AND 'BUDDY' I GO OUT"]
[Illustration: BILTMORE OSWALD and FOGARTY]