_ I hear that I am going to be put on the mess crew. God
pity me, poor wretch! How shall I ever keep my hands from becoming
red? What a terrible war it is!
_April 11th._ Saw a basket ball game the other night. Never knew it
was so rough. I used to play it with the girls and we had such sport.
There seemed to be some reason for it then. There are a couple of
queer looking brothers on our team who seem to try utterly to demolish
their opponents. They remind me of a couple of tough gentlemen from
Scranton I heard about in a story once.
_April 12th._ The price of fags (gee! I'm getting rough) has gone up
again. This war is rapidly cramping my style.
_April 14th._ I have been too sick at heart to write up my diary--Eli
is dead! "Pop," the Jimmy-legs, found the body and has been promoted
to Chief Master-at-arms. It's an ill wind that blows no good. I
don't know whether it was because he found Eli or because he runs one
of the most modernly managed mess halls in camp or because his working
parties are always well attended that "Pop" received his appointment,
but whatever it was it does my heart good to see a real seagoing old
salt, one of our few remaining ex-apprentice boys, receive recognition
that is so well merited.
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