"No, sir," I hastened to assure him, "only profoundly perplexed. I think, sir, that I would go into a conference, under the circumstances." The officer seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. "What's your name?" asked another officer suddenly. I told him. "Initials?" I told him. He looked at the paper for a moment. "That explains it," he said with a sigh of relief, "you're not the man. There has been some mistake. Orderly, take this man away and bring back the right one. Pronto!" That Spanish stuff sounds awfully sea-going. I was taken away, but the officer had not yet recovered. He regarded me with an expression of profound disgust. Anyway I created a sensation. [Illustration: "'I WOULD STILL REMAIN IN A DENSE FOG,' I GASPED IN A LOW VOICE"] _Sept. 4th._ Things have been happening with overwhelming rapidity. On the strength of being properly engaged to Polly, my permanent sweetie, I went to my Regimental commander this morning and applied for a furlough. He regarded me pityingly for a moment and then carefully scanned a list of names on the desk before him. "I am sorry," he said finally, "but not only am I not able to grant your request, but I have the unpleasant duty to inform you that you are a little less than forty-eight hours from the vicinity of Ambrose light." "Shipped!" I gasped as the world swam around me. "Your name is on this list," said the officer not unkindly. "Shipped!" I repeated in a dazed voice. "It does seem ridiculous, I'll admit," said the officer, smiling, "but you never can tell what strange things are going to happen in the Navy. If I were in your place I'd take advantage of this head start I have given you and get my clothes and sea-bag in some sort of condition. If I remember rightly, you have never been able successfully to achieve this since you've been in the service." "Thank you, sir," I gasped, and bolted. In my excitement I ran violently into a flock of ensigns stalking across the parade ground. "I'm going to be shipped," I cried by way of explanation to one of them as he arose wrathfully. "You're going to be damned," said he, and I was. Too frantic to write more. _Sept. 5th._ All preparations have been made. Tim, Tony and the Spider are going too. I have just been listening to the most disturbing conversation. It all arose from our speculating as to our probable destination and the nature of our services. The Master-at-arms, who had been sleeping on the hammock rack as only a Master-at-arms can, permitted himself to remain awake long enough to join in. "I wouldn't be at all surprised," said he, "if you were shipped to one of these new Submarine Provokers." "What's that?" I asked uneasily. "Why, it's a sort of a dee-coy," said he, stretching his huge hulk, "a little, unarmed boat that goes messing around in the ocean until it finds a submarine and then it provokes it." "How's that?" asked Tim.