Now in the day of retrospection I fain would believe that the Admiral or his aide must have been in collusion with the “Pennsylvania” gobs because every last one of them either was bare-footed or reading Sam Clark’s Jim Jam Jems or the little old Banger. Wonderful fellows, these jackies, but the pesky cusses just insisted on looking onward and upward (mostly upward) when the fairly formed feminines in the party mounted from deck to deck. They just couldn’t control their naughty eyes. Possibly it had something to do with Bull of the Durham, for I am told that the sailor boys love to roll their own. * * * * * Now, Gentle Readers of this journal of uplift, I have one little wee surprise for you. Gus, my old time hired man, who jumped the job two months ago, located and surprised me at the Alexandria. Gus is a pestiferous cuss and has the faculty of bobbing up at the crucial moment. My “supply” had given out and promptly, even more promptly than had been his will to paint boats at Breezy Point Lodge, he supplied the missing medicine. It was “terrible stuff” but with the sailor boys I’ll say—Any port in a storm. His juniper juice created a tempest within me but I was glad nevertheless once again to shake the hoary hand of toil. In parting I slipped Gus a five simoleon note. He whispered that he was “on the rocks” and hadn’t worked since he left Minnesota. We then and there entered into a gentleman’s agreement that he never again would work for me unless his duties would be solely acting as Indian guide at Breezy Point at a wage of nothing—except the maternal or fraternal friendship of Maggie, our cook. Gus loves Maggie, I think, but better still, he loves her flapjacks. Adios to you, Gustav, and here’s hoping I don’t see you till the fishing season next spring. * * * * * Just one more drop or so before turning off the tap. It happened to be my good luck to be invited by Bill Eltinge, better known in the theatrical world as Julian, to attend a stag party in honor of the Los Angeles and Vernon baseball teams at the Maier brewery in Los Angeles. Doc Stone was master of ceremonies and he treated us lonely two hundred homeless and wifeless old stags in a royal manner. From a purely personal standpoint there was but one action that marred the entire evening. After being entertained to a realistic view of the grand canyon and a wonderful dance performed by Slim Summerfield and Bobby Dunn of the Fox studio, the right honorable toastmaster called on “Captain Billy Whiz Bang” to recitate. Imagine a rube farmer trying to spread the fertilizer over the rathskeller of an up-to-date Loz Onglaz brewery. Impossible, I’ll say.