"Well, what are you standing around for?" he said a moment later, spying me in my corner.
"Oh, doctor," I cried, delighted, "I thought you had forgotten me."
"No," said the doctor, "I'll never forget you. You pass. Take your papers and clear out."
I can now feel with a certain degree of security that I am in the Navy.
Feb. 26th. I broke the news to mother to-day and she took it like a little gentleman, only crying on twelve different occasions. I had estimated it much higher than that.
After dinner she read me a list of the things I was to take with me to camp, among which were several sorts of life preservers, an electric bed warmer and a pair of dancing pumps.
"Why not include spurs?" I asked, referring to the pumps. "I'd look very crisp in spurs, and they would help me in climbing the rigging."
"But some officer might ask you to a dance," protested mother.
"Mother," I replied firmly, "I have decided to decline all social engagements during my first few weeks in camp. You can send the pumps when I write for them."
A card came to-day ordering me to report on March 1st. Consequently I am not quite myself.