so glad to see me back that he almost cried as he thrust a broom and a
swab into my hands.

"Bear a hand," he said gleefully, "get to work and stick to it. We're
short of men," he added, "and there is no end of things for you to
do."

I did them all and he was right. There surely is no end to the things
he can devise for me to do. I long for the glamour and footlights of
the gay white way, but I have been cast out and rejected as many a
Show Girl has been before me.

_June 1st._ The morning papers say all sort of nice things about
Biff-Bang but I can hardly believe them sincere after the treatment I
received. I know for a fact that the man who took my place was
knock-kneed and that the rest of his figure could not hold a candle to
mine.

I still feel convinced that Biff-Bang lost one of its most
prepossessing and talented artists when I was so unceremoniously
removed from the chorus.

_June 10th._ I was standing doing harm to no one in a vague, rather
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 

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