When I got back here to my barracks the first thing I did was to peel off my shirt and look for that hive. I caught him. And then the whole terrible plot to get me detailed as kitchen policeman was revealed. “Local Board No. 163” has fleas; or, rather, he had ’em. I’ve got ’em now—no, wrong again. I got rid of them, or I hope I did. [Illustration: I picked him up in one hand and a cake of yellow soap in the other.] Upon making the hideous discovery, I summoned “Local Board No. 163” in court martial proceedings. He was guilty; I could see it by the way his spirit sagged in the middle when I began to cross-question him. I picked him up in one hand and a cake of yellow soap and a towel in the other, and we proceeded toward the shower baths. Bur-r-r-r but that water was cold. “Local Board No. 163” didn’t enjoy it either, but I could with justice assure him that this form of punishment hurt me as much as it did him, and what is more I am likely to suffer a heap worse to-morrow. “Local Board No. 163,” you sleep _under_ the bed to-night. Tuesday: Too blasted tired to write to-night. I did a whole winter’s work this morning. Shovelled nine tons (almost) of coal into the coal bin, as a starter. Then peeled a sack of potatoes, scrubbed an acre of floor and a half-acre of table tops and benches, washed twenty ash cans, and other kitchen utensils and—oh, I’m too tired now, think I’ll wait until to-morrow. “Local Board No. 163” sleeps _out on the porch_ to-night. Wednesday: Still kitchen policing. Yesterday I thought I had pulled some job when I peeled an ash can full of potatoes, but that was nothing. To-day I got a better one. I had to peel the same amount of potatoes, only they were in a washboiler this time. Yes, right off the fire. I can’t see why the Government has to serve potatoes with the jackets off anyway. Why don’t they let the men peel them? They are just as well able to do it as we are. If some one ever wants to invent a choice way of punishing refractory prisoners in jail I suggest they send said refractors into the kitchen and give them the gentle job of peeling hot potatoes, by the washboilerful. I have a side partner on the kitchen police. His name is O’Flynn and he runs into even better luck than I do. To-day he shared the job of peeling “hot ones” with me. Yesterday while I had the little task of peeling ’em raw, he was handed the nice detail of attending to twelve pounds of onions; a tearful occasion, until some one with a conscience suggested that he get a bucket of water and peel them under water. O’Flynn got the water, with the remark that if he waited just a little longer the onion pan would have been full of tears, which he assumed would have served just as well.