After dinner, then, one game of cards, two, three. Some other game as an occasional novelty, though we always return to the noble game of manilla.
Milliard goes from house to house with the letters for each squadron. Here he comes. A sound of footsteps in the yard. We raise our heads; is it he? It is. He knocks on the window-pane. We all spring to the door. The postman is welcomed as eagerly as though he were the bearer of victory and peace. He draws up to the lamp, reads the envelopes, and sits down. If there are but few letters he apologizes.
Henriot and he chatter away by the fireside for a few minutes.
"Come, boys, quick, give me your letters," says Milliard. "I have three more squadrons to serve."
Our thanks follow him right into the yard.
To bed early this evening.
Tuesday, 8th December.
We do the best we can to clean our clothes. A knife has to be used for scraping coats and puttees, to which great scales of mud are sticking. Disputes burst out. Who is the first for the hand-basin?
Some such remark as the following is heard—
"You're not going to keep it all to yourself, as you did last time, I suppose?"