In my wandering I chanced upon an ancient enemy of many past
encounters.

"Are you Red or Blue?" I asked, preparing to die for the fifth time.

"No," he answered, sarcastically, "I'm what you might call elephant
ear gray."

"Are you the guy the reporter for the camp paper was referring to in
his last story?" I asked him.

"Yes," he replied, "the slandering blackguard."

"You hit me on the nose with a push-ball," said I.

"I'll do it again," said he.

"That reporter, evidently a man of some observation, said you didn't
wash your neck and that you had the habits of a camel."

"But I do wash my neck," he said, stubbornly, "and I don't know
anything about the habits of a camel, but whatever they might happen
to be, I haven't got 'em."

"Yes," I replied, as if to myself, "you certainly should wash your
neck. That's the very least you could do."

"But I tell you," he cried, desperately, "I keep telling you that I do
wash my neck. Why do you go on talking about it as if I didn't! I tell
you now, once for all time, that I do wash my neck, and that ends it.