_March 25th._ Man! Man! How I suffer! I'm so weary I could sleep on my
company commander's breast, and to bring oneself to that one must be
considerably fatigued, so to speak. Who invented liberty, anyway? It's
a greatly over-rated pastime as far as I can make out, consisting of
coming and going with the middle part omitted.

One man whispered to me at muster this morning that all he could
remember of his liberty was checking out and checking in. He looked
unwell. My old pal, "Spike" Kelly, I hear was also out of luck. His
girl was the skipper of a Fourteenth Street crosstown car, so he was
forced to spend most of his time riding, between the two rivers. He
nickeled himself to death in doing it. He said if Mr. Shonts plays
golf, as no doubt he does, he has "Spike" Kelly to thank for a nice,
new box of golf balls. And while on the subject, "Spike" observes that
one of those engaging car signs should read:

"Is it Gallantry, or the Advent of Woman Suffrage, or the Presence of
the Conductorette that Causes So Many Sailors to Wear Out Their Seats
Riding Back and Forth, and So Many Unnecessary Fares to Be Rung Up in
So Doing?"

His conversation with "Mame," his light-o'-love, was conducted along
this line:

"Say, Mame."

"Yes, George, dear (fare, please, madam). What does tweetums want?"

"You look swell in your new uniform."