So far as the police were concerned, he said, he didn’t care much, for the last place they would ever look for him was down here. Speaking of deserters, I noticed three sets of finger-prints on our bulletin board which means that three men have taken French leave and they have prices on their heads, already. Thursday: This has been a moist and soggy day. I don’t know that I have ever seen so much rain before in one storm as I have to-day. Before daylight it began; a perfect downpour, so violent that for reveille we lined up in the mess hall. None of us ventured out to wash up, but those of us who missed a cold sprinkle the most had merely to poke our heads out of the windows for a moment and then reach for a towel. Some wetness. The camp is a veritable sea of mud, and those who go outdoors at all do so to the imminent peril of becoming mired and never returning. From the mess-hall windows at breakfast we could watch the big heavy motor truck of the transportation train, skidding and sloshing about in the road, down which flooded a perfect torrent of muddy rain water. Several of them became hopelessly stuck in the sticky mud, and their drivers abandoned them and raced for cover in the Y. M. C. A. shack. Officers and men everywhere have given up all idea of outdoor work and the camp streets look forlorn and deserted. They stretch away down the hill to fade into the misty blur of the rain itself, and on either hand stand the long, unpainted barracks buildings, with dripping eaves and rain blowing in sheets from their tinned and tar-papered roofs. Outside, it is a dismal, deserted-looking cantonment, with scarcely a sign of life, save now and then a venturesome canine mascot scuttling from one sheltered spot to another. Drilling, of course, is utterly impossible and the nearest approach we have had to anything resembling military training to-day is a lecture on sanitation in the mess hall by the First Lieutenant. But the rain has not dampened our desires for amusement and as a result the interior of the sleeping quarters presents, at the present time, a picture that only a Remington could do justice to. Atmosphere sticks out all over the place. Army overcoats, tunics, variegated comforters, blankets, mess kits, sweaters and flannel shirts are hanging from every peg, and men are sprawled on their cots, in various attitude, some trying hard to sleep, some writing, one man thoughtfully locating the notes of a new tune on a mouth organ, while another over in the corner—an Italian—is the centre of an enthusiastic group, while he plays doleful things on an old accordion he has smuggled into camp. The air is blue with tobacco smoke. A number of us are writing, including myself, but the chief centres of interest are the two big poker games and the big crap game down at the end of the room.