"Posty" started nervously and the letters dropped from his hands. While he gathered them up, Garth in his most military manner delivered himself of a caustic rebuke:—
"You have left letters here which belong elsewhere, and I have lost letters through your carelessness. What is the matter with you anyway—can't you read?" he snapped.
"Yes, sir," stammered "Posty," flushing as red as the band on his hat.
"Well, then," went on the young officer, "why don't you use your eyes—where do you keep them anyway?"
"Posty" stood at attention as he answered with measured deliberation:—
"I have one of them here ... but I left the other one at Saint-Éloi. Were you thinking of hunting it up for me, sir,—when—you—go—over?"
That was six weeks ago. Still the war goes on. Returned men walk our streets, new pale faces lie on hospital pillows, telegraph boys on wheels carry dread messages to the soldiers' homes.
Garth has gone back to an Eastern city for another course (this time in signaling). He gave a whole set of buttons off his uniform to Mae before he went—and he had his photograph taken again!
Even if he does not get over in time to do much in this war, it is worth something to have such a perfectly trained young officer ready for the next war!