cartoonist and sporting editor joined. There they stood, the three of
them, abusing this poor simple yeoman in the most unnecessary manner
as far as I could make out. Three harder cut-throats I have never
encountered. While in the office, I came upon a rather elderly artist
crouched over in a corner writhing as if he was in great pain. He was
in the throes of composition, I was told, and he looked it. Poor
wretch, he seemed to have something on his mind. The only man I saw
who seemed to have anything like a balanced mind was the financial
shark, a little ferret-eyed, onery-looking cuss whom I wouldn't have
trusted out of my sight. He was sitting with his nose thrust in some
dusty volume totally oblivious of the pandemonium that reigned around
him. He either has a great mind or none at all--probably the latter. I
fear I would never make an editor. The atmosphere is simply
altogether too strenuous for me.


_May 4th._ There seems to be no place in the service for me; I cannot
decide what rating to select. To be a quartermaster one must know how
to signal, and signaling always tires my arms. One must know how to
blow a horrid shrill little whistle in order to become a boatswain
mate, and my ears could never stand this. To be a yeoman, it is
necessary to know how to rattle papers in an important manner and
disseminate misinformation with a straight face, and this I could
never do. I fear the only thing left for me is to try for a
commission. I'm sure I would be a valuable addition to any wardroom.


_May 6th._ "Man the drags! Hey, there, you flannel-footed camel, stop
galloping! What are you doing, anyway--playing horses?"