"Mister Officer," I gasped, pointing across at this blood-thirsty man, "don't you think that he's just a little too close? I'm afraid I might hurt him by accident." The officer surveyed the situation with a swift, practical eye. "Oh, I guess he can take care of himself all right," he replied. That was just what I feared. The man smiled grimly. "But does he know that this is only practise?" I continued. "He certainly doesn't look as if he did." "That's the way you should look," said the officer, "work your own face up a bit. This isn't a vampire scene. Don't look as if you were going to lure him. Y'know you're supposed to be angry with your opponent when you meet him in battle, quite put out in fact. And furthermore you're supposed to look it." I regarded my opponent, but only terror was written on my face. Then suddenly we lunged and either through fear or mismanagement I succeeded only in running my bayonet deep into the ground. In some strange manner the butt of the gun jabbed me in the stomach and I was completely winded. My opponent was dancing and darting around me like a local but thorough-going lightning storm. I abandoned my gun and stood sideways, thus decreasing the possible area of danger. Had the exercises continued much longer I would have had a spell of something, probably the blind staggers. [Illustration: "I STOOD SIDE-WAYS, THUS DECREASING THE POSSIBLE AREA OF DANGER"] "You're not pole vaulting," said the instructor to me, as he returned the gun. "In a real show you'd have looked like a pin cushion by this time." I felt like one. Then it all started over again and this time I thought I was doing a little better, when quite unexpectedly the instructor shouted at me. "Stop prancing around in that silly manner," he cried, "you're not doing a sword dance, sonny." "He thinks he's still a show girl," some one chuckled, "he's that seductive." Mess gear interrupted our happy morning. The sight of a knife fairly sickened me. _June 24th._ Last week I caught a liberty--a perfect Forty-three--and went to spend it with some cliff dwelling friends of mine who, heaven help their wretched lot! lived on the sixth and top floor of one of those famous New York struggle-ups. Before shoving off there was some slight misunderstanding between the inspecting officer and myself relative to the exact color of my, broadly speaking, Whites. "Fall out, there," he said to me. "You can't go out on liberty in Blues." "But these, sir," I responded huskily, "are not Blues; they're Whites." "Look like Blues to me," he said skeptically. "Fall out anyway. You're too dirty."