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.

They are all playing with that oppressive quietness that portends big stakes. I was startled a while ago upon walking over to the nearest group to discover eighty dollars, in ones, fives, and tens on the top of the army cot that served as a table in a single jack pot, and they were still betting. Our two Regular Army Sergeants are members of one group and Fat is sitting in at another. From the length of time he has stayed and the smile on his face, I can only guess that luck is with him for once.

But it has failed a lot of others. Now and then a man leaves one game or the other, looking sort of hopeless. There is always some one to take his place, however.

One of these fellows, gone broke, hit upon a happy idea which caused no end of interest for an hour or two this afternoon. After he had gone broke he left the game and sat thoughtfully on the edge of his cot for a while. Then he dug down into his duffel bag under his cot and brought forth a razor. Speedily he made up some raffle tickets on slips of note paper and presently, with the razor in one hand and his campaign hat in the other, he started through the room selling chances on the razor at a dime a chance. The raffle was held over in our corner, and one lucky chap got the razor, easily worth two fifty, for a single dime and the erstwhile owner, with five dollars worth of change in his pockets, returned to the game.

That started the raffle bug, and presently a wrist watch was put up, then another razor of the safety variety, a fountain pen, an extra hand knitted sweater which some one had luckily acquired, several boxes of crackers which every one took a chance on at a cent a chance and a variety of other things. But the crackers were the most popular and that helped one ingenious and venturesome chap to evolve a money-making scheme.

In the height of the rainstorm, he was seen to don his slicker, and hurry out into the storm. He splashed all the way over to the Post Exchange (about half a mile) to return a half-hour later with four pies for which he had paid forty cents each and three dozen boxes of crackers all in good condition. The crackers went for double their value and the pies he successfully split up into twelve fair-sized portions which sold for ten cents each. That trip in the rain netted him nearly seven dollars he told me, and that seven dollars later on, invested in the crap game, trebled itself; so, all things considered, he has had a more or less successful day.