The Sergeant rolled over and tried to get up. “Don’t hold me down; lemme at him,” he said huskily. But no one was holding him down. It was his refractory nerves. They wouldn’t obey his will power. “7-8-9-10,” tolled off the fateful numbers. Then what a yell went up for Redney, and Red, almost all in, himself, evidently had satisfied his grudge, for he went over and helped stand the groggy Sergeant on his feet. And all agreed it was some battle. But the Y.M. shacks aren’t dedicated to prize fights and swearing and concerts entirely. They are the nearest approach to home or club life that most of us come in contact with for weeks at a stretch. The big, open hearths with their crackling logs are mighty fine places to spend a pleasant hour or two. Then there are the writing tables, and the reading rooms with their books and magazines, and the phonographs. The other night I saw a great big fellow, with burly fists and a stubbly beard on his chin (it must have been the night before his bi-weekly shave, which is as often as most of us can find time—or the inclination to use a razor) snuggled up close to the phonograph and listening attentively to the “Swanee River,” which he was playing as softly as the instrument would permit, and now and then he would blow his nose in a big handkerchief and wipe suspicious signs of moisture from the corners of his eyes. He was having a regular sad drunk and enjoying every moment of it. I’ll bet he thought he was the most homesick mortal in camp. Then there are the telephone booths. Every night there is a line of at least fifty men waiting patiently for a chance in the booth. At a dollar a call they ring up the folks in the city and have five minutes’ chat with them, just by way of warding off an attack of homesickness. I’ve used the booth five dollars’ worth to date. These army breeches I’m wearing, I noticed to-night, are very comfortable. I like the deep, straight pockets in them. I think I’ll have my civilian suit made with those kind of pockets hereafter. But I haven’t gotten over the habit of pulling them up each time I sit down so that they won’t get baggy at the knees. Wednesday: Found my dog! I was over in another section of the cantonment this morning, for a few moments between drill and mess call, and there was “Local Board No. 163” as big as life, trotting along beside a chap I knew. It was Billy Allen. The dog recognized me and so did Billy and we stopped a while and compared notes.