y. I must try to catch up, for what
would posterity do should the record of my inspiring career in the
service not be faithfully recorded for them to read with reverence and
amazement in days to come?

One of the unfortunate events arose from scraping a too intimate
acquaintance with that horrid old push ball. How did it ever get into
camp anyway, and who ever heard of a ball being so large? It doesn't
seem somehow right to me--out of taste, if you get what I mean. There
is a certain lack of restraint and conservatism about it which all
games played among gentlemen most positively should possess. But the
chap who pushed that great big beast of a push ball violently upon my
unsuspecting nose was certainly no gentleman. Golly, what a resounding
whack! This fellow (I suspect him of being a German spy, basing my
suspicions upon his seeming disposition for atrocities) was standing
by, looking morosely at this small size planet when I blows gently up
and says playfully in my most engaging voice:

"I say, old dear, you push it to me and I'll push it to
you--softly, though, chappy, softly." And with that he flung
himself upon the ball and hurled it full upon my nose, completely
demolishing it. Now I have always been a little partial to my nose. My
eyes, I'll admit, are not quite as soulful as those liquid orbs of
Francis X. Bushman's, but my nose has been frequently admired and
envied in the best drawing rooms in New York. But it won't be envied
any more, I fear--pitied rather.

Of course I played the game no more. I was nauseated by pain and the
sight of blood. My would-be assassin was actually forced to sit down,
he was so weak from brutal laughter. I wonder if I can ever be an
Ensign with a nose like this?

[Illustration: "OF COURSE I PLAYED THE GAME NO MORE"]

_April 7th._ On the way back from a little outing the other day my
companion, Tim, who in civil life had been a barkeeper and a good one
at that, ingratiated himself in the good graces of a passing
automobile party and we consequently were asked in. There were two
girls, sisters, I fancy, and a father and mother aboard.

"And where do you come from, young gentlemen?" asked the old man.

"Me pal comes from San Diego," pipes up my unscrupulous friend, "and
my home town is San Francisco."

I knew for a fact that he had never been farther from home than the
Polo Grounds, and as for me I had only the sketchiest idea of where my
home town was supposed to be.