Passing into the corridor, and hearing the piano's notes in the mess-room he glanced inside. It was a rest period between drills, and a soldier seated at the instrument strummed his way through the air of a mournful ditty. It's an odd thing that when the average soldier is wholly cheerful he prefers the "sobful" melodies.
At one of the long mess tables near the piano sat four young men, paying no heed to the music, nor, in fact, doing anything in particular.
"How many of you men have mothers?" Prescott asked with a smile.
All admitted that they had.
"How many of you have written that mother to-day?"
None had.
"How many wrote her yesterday?" None.
"Think hard," Dick went on. "Has any of you written his mother a letter within five days?"
One soldier asserted that he had written his mother four days before.
"I wish you men would do me a favor," Dick went on. "Each one of you write his mother at least a four-page letter and mail it before supper. There is going to be time enough between drills to-day. How about it?"