This is sometimes varied, when the speaker happens to be the tough sort, by; “Huh! I’ve put more time in the guard-house than you have in the army!”
Tonight a boy came up to the counter and asked: “Goin’ to serve hot chocolate tonight?”
“Sure thing!”
“Then I guess I won’t go out and get drunk.”
It’s going to be hot chocolate or die in that hut every night after this!
Bourmont, November 31.
I don’t like my uniform. I don’t like women in uniform anyway. I suppose it is because one is so used to the expression of a woman’s personality in dress that when she dons regulation garb she seems to lose so much. And then to really carry off a uniform requires a flair, a dash, a swagger, and such are rarely feminine possessions. The consensus of opinion seems to bear me out.
“Of course I think women in uniforms look very snappy,” confided a lad to me today; “but somehow they don’t look like women to me!”
“Pas joli,” says Monsieur le Commandant severely, referring to my hat. “Pas joli!” But when I put on my old blue civilian coat he fairly goes into raptures.
“Be-u-ti-ful!” he ejaculates. “Be-u-ti-ful! Toilette de ville. Pas toilette de Y. M. C. A.!”