I am rapidly discovering hitherto unsuspected
depths of depravity in Mr. Fogerty, which leads me to believe that he
is almost human.
_July 4th._ This has been the doggonest Fourth of July I ever spent,
and as a result I am in much trouble. All day long I have been
grooming myself to look spic and span at the review held in honor of
the Secretary when he opened the new wing to the camp. I missed it. I
lost completely something in the neighborhood of ten thousand men. It
seems hard to do, but the fact, the ghastly fact, remains that I did
it. When I dashed out of the barracks with my newly washed, splendidly
seagoing, still damp white hat in my hand my company was gone, and the
whole camp seemed deserted. Far in the distance I heard the music of
the band. Fogerty looked inquiringly at me and I fled. He fled after
me.
[Illustration: "I LOST COMPLETELY SOMETHING IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF
10,000 MEN"]
"Fogerty," I gasped, "this is a trick I have to pull off alone. You're
not in on this review, and for God's sake act reasonable."
I couldn't bear the thought of chasing across the parade ground with
that simple-looking dog bounding along at my heels. My remark had no
effect.
Pages:
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109