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.
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