There were a couple of pairs of rather dusty liberty blues in camp that night.
April 8th. Yesterday mother paid a visit to camp and insisted upon me breaking out my hammock in order for her to see if I had covers enough.
"I can never permit you to sleep in that, my dear," she said after pounding and prodding it for a few numbers; "never—and I am sure the Commander will agree with me after I have explained to him how delicate you have always been."
Later in the afternoon she became a trifle mollified when I told her that the master-at-arms came around every night and distributed extra blankets to every one that felt cold. "Be sure to see that he gives you enough coverings," she said severely, "or else put him on report," which I faithfully promised to do.
She was greatly delighted with the Y.M.C.A. and the Hostess Committee. Here I stood her up for several bricks of ice cream and a large quantity of cake. My fourth attempt she refused, however, saying by way of explanation to a very pretty girl standing by, "It wouldn't be good for him, my dear; my son has always had such a weak stomach. The least little thing upsets him."
"I believe you," replied the young lady, sympathetically, as she gazed at me. I certainly looked upset at the moment. This was worse than the underwear.
"So that's an Ensign!" she exclaimed later in an obviously disappointed tone of voice; "well, I'm not so sure that I want you to become one now." The passing ensign couldn't help but hear her, as she had practically screamed in his ear. He turned and studied my face carefully. I think he was making sure that he could remember it.
"Now take me to your physician," commanded mother, resolutely. "I want to be sure that he sees that you take your spring tonic regularly."