vicinity of the door that leads to the mess hall and kitchen, especially about meal time. And their mess kits are always handy. Nicknames have already become common, and we have among us such worthies as Fat, Doc, Peck’s Bad Boy, Toney, Binkie, Shortie, Shrimp, Simp and Pop. The last name has been applied to me, inspired, no doubt, by the suggestion of baldness aloft.

Italians gather in little groups

Sunday:

Didn’t sleep much last night, for some reason. Think I was too tired. This is the third night I’ve lost time. Beginning to feel it now. But no one else seemed to sleep well either, or at least they didn’t go to sleep right off. Lights out at ten and all supposed to be “tucked in.” Then came various remarks from the darkness; choice, unprintable remarks about the Kaiser, the Government, the Sergeant, certain Corporals, who doubtless heard all their well-wishers had to say, but could not identify the speakers. Indeed, it struck me that the fellows had hit upon a choice way of telling certain non-coms what they thought of them, without the possibility of getting in bad. Then arguments started in the darkness, and the vocal combatants were urged on by catcalls and encouraging yells from various sections of the unlighted room, and presently shoes started flying.

About that time the Top Sergeant upstairs woke up, and decided to investigate. Silence fell in the big room when the stairs, creaking under his weight, gave warning that the crusty old veteran of fifteen years’ service with the Regulars was on his way down.

The Top Sergeant made the round of the cots

The door opened and a pocket flashlight began to travel from cot to cot. But strangely enough every one was slumbering contentedly, and some even snoring. The Top Sergeant made the round of the cots, reached the door and “doused his glim.”

Then with a most impressive introduction of profanity he remarked that “The next ——, ——, son-of-a-bandmaster, who started anything would spend the rest of the night out on the porch in his underclothes,” whereupon some wag from the darkness replied: “Put t’ Kaiser out there, he started it.” While others sweetly remarked: “Good-night Sergeant.” “Pleasant dreams, dear.” “Come kiss me good-night.” and “Don’t forget to tuck us all in.”

But things eventually subsided and I dozed off, only to be awakened later by some one kissing me on the cheek. It was startling to say the least, and I sat up. I thought perhaps the Sergeant had come back to say good-night. Then it happened again, only this time on my hand, and I heard an eager little whine, and a sniff-sniff-sniffing that told me plainly a dog was beside my cot.

I chirped encouragingly and up he came. Then he dived between the blankets and burrowing deep worked his way down to the foot of my cot. Evidently he had slept in army cots before. All my efforts to dislodge him were futile and I knew that unless I got up and unmade my bed he would not come out. So I left him, and he in gratitude kept my feet warm.

This morning he appeared at reveille, waking me up with his frantic efforts to dig himself to light again and kissing me good-morning, by way of showing his appreciation. He was just a plain yellow dog, with a lop ear and a habit of wagging all over when he could not get enough expression in his stump of a tail. Attached to a strap that he wore in place of a collar was a tag on which was scrawled: “Presented to Local Board No. 163—Hold the fort for we are coming.” I concluded that if they held onto the fort, when they arrived, as well as they held onto their dog it wasn’t worth while having them come at all.

“Local Board No. 163” stood guard on the foot of my bed, or rather, sat guard, until I got dressed, and although he created no end of interest among the rest of the fellows in the room, who whistled and called to him, he refused to leave his new-found “bunkie.” He just sat tight. He even stayed when I got up to go, but he looked at me with a most reproachful air, as if to say, “I think a lot of you even though you do want to leave me.”

He remained after every one had left the room and when I returned an hour later to get my mess kit for breakfast, he was still there.

But the rattle of mess tins must have suggested something to him for when I got up to go this time he was right beside me, and he even braved the crush at the mess-hall door to stick near me.

That dog never had so much to eat in all his young life as he got for breakfast that morning. First he visited our Japanese cook, who liked him and proved it by giving him a piece of meat. Then he visited the kitchen police, who found something for him, after which he made the rounds of the mess tables, coming back to me actually bloated with food. He looked up at me and I’ll swear he grinned and tried to say: “This is the life—eh, Ol’ Top?”

“Local Board No. 163” has already become a favourite, but with all his petting from his many well-wishers, he seems to want to call me Boss. He’s on the cot beside me now as I write, snoring with disgusting impoliteness, but I guess, being just a plain yellow dog, he don’t know any better.

This has been a day of visitors, and little work. Early this morning they began to arrive. I never saw so many motor cars anywhere, except at football games, or the races. And girls; thousands of them, and pretty, too. But shucks, I’m outclassed. In fact I began to feel like my dog to-day. I’ll admit it was pretty soft for the fellows who had uniforms, but for the poor tramps like myself, who still wear their civilian clothes (or what is left of them, which isn’t very much all told) it was sort of a lonesome day.

Pretty soft for the fellows who had uniforms

Then there were the lucky fellows who had passes to leave camp. They looked fine, tramping down the road toward the station. Of course they were all uniformed; they are not allowed to leave camp unless they are.

But “Local Board No. 163” and I take consolation in the fact that perhaps next Sunday we will be all spick and span in a nice new uniform, and then we’ll strike for a pass, too, and go home and swagger about a bit ourselves.

Feeling delightfully tired and sleepy; and I know I’ll “press some of the creases out o’ my blankets” to-night. This place seems almost comfortable and homelike now, and the men—well I’ve changed my original opinion of them considerably. They all (or most of them) have their hearts in the right place, and there aren’t so many muckers as I thought there might be. In fact I’m beginning to like things mighty well; really enjoying myself. Only, hang it, I think I’m getting a good case of hives. Haven’t been afflicted thus for about five years. If they keep up I’ll report to the hospital shortly. “Come on ‘Local Board