Concern for his bunkie’s loss drove the subject of the letters from Roger’s mind. Returning into the barrack after roll call to make themselves presentable before breakfast, recollection of the missing letters came back to Roger with dismaying force.
“Don’t forget your letters, Jimmy,” he reminded.
“Much obliged. I had forgotten. That shoe business rattled me. I’ll cinch them now before I visit the sink to make myself beautiful.”
A few quick strides and he had reached his cot. Following, Roger heard him exclaim: “What in Sam Hill!” Whirling with a grin he called out, “You old fake! You’ve got those letters! All right. You can just mail ’em.”
“But I haven’t,” came the earnest denial. “When I first woke up this morning I looked at the shelf and saw they were gone. I thought you’d put them in some other place.”
“I put them on that shelf,” emphasized Jimmy. “What’s the matter, I’d like to know? First my shoe turns up under Iggy’s cot and then away go all our letters. There’s something queer about this. Shoes without feet can’t walk off alone. Letters can’t disappear without hands. What’s the answer?”
“Maybe Iggy or Bob took the letters to mail for you,” hazarded Roger. “They’ve gone ahead to scrub up for breakfast and we’d better do the same. You can ask them about it in the mess hall. Don’t bother any more about it now. Come on.”
Frowning, Jimmy obeyed, feeling a trifle nettled over the fact of a second annoying disappearance on the heels of the first.