"A man speaks with the voice God gave him," said her husband. "As for me, I look at what a man does, and don't trouble myself about his voice. And after all, it is not a bad voice."
"Smooth as butter," rejoined the woman. "But there, we shall never agree, mon ami. Get on with your soup."
After supper, some of the men settled down to write home. The postal regulations annoyed Ginger.
"I'm a poor hand at writing," he said, "and I don't see why I shouldn't send my love to my wife and kids on one of these here postcards. It ain't enough for a letter; yet if I put it on the postcard they'd destroy it, they say. What for, I'd like to know?"
"It does seem hard lines," said Kenneth, "but I suppose it's to ease the censors' work. They've an enormous number of cards to look over, and they'd never get done if they had to read a lot of stuff."
"'Love' 's a little word; that wouldn't hurt 'em. Still, rules is rules, no doubt."
He proceeded to cross out several sentences on the official postcard provided, leaving only "I am quite well" and adding his signature and the date.
Presently the post corporal came to collect the letters and cards.
"Captain wants you, Murgatroyd," he said.
"Going to give you your stripe at last, Ginger," said Harry.