"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 appearance, which I have always regarded hitherto not without
a certain shade of satisfaction. Only the other day I caught the eyes
of the gloomiest sailor in camp studying me with a puzzled expression.
He gazed at me for such a long time that I became quite disconcerted.
Slowly a smile spread over his face, then a strange, rusty laugh
forced itself through his lips.
"Doggone if I can solve it," he chuckled, turning away and shaking his
head; "it's just simply too much for me."
He looked back once, clapped his hands over his mouth and proceeded
merrily on his way.
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