"Your loving father,
"FRANK CARR."
Malcolm deliberately folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. The rest of the correspondence remained unopened. "Wounded and missing"--he knew pretty well what that meant. The odds were greatly against the chance of seeing Peter again. Somewhere in the mud of Flanders--what a mockery that bright sunlit morning in New Zealand seemed--somewhere in that hideous No-Man's-Land his brother had fallen. A raid in the hostile trenches; Peter wounded and left behind unnoticed by his comrades. A man in that predicament stood less than a dog's chance. He must have been too badly hit to be able to crawl in--and the boys back from the front told grim tales of Hun brutality to the wounded who were unfortunate enough to fall into the enemy's hands. So far the Carrs had been lucky. Peter was the only member of the family of military age. Several of their intimate friends and scores of mere acquaintances had made the great sacrifice, but for the first time Malcolm realized the closeness of the Great War. Its ravages had touched him through his elder brother----
"By Jove!" exclaimed Dick Selwyn, deep in a newspaper, "there are two of my cousins, Jim and Laurence Selwyn--you know, they had a farm just out of Ashburton--done in; and Tom Selwyn of Oamaru dangerously wounded. That looks as if----Hallo! What's up, old man?"
"Peter's wounded and missing," replied Malcolm briefly.
For some minutes silence fell upon the pair. The postman, gulping his tea outside the hut, was shouting unheeded witticisms to the lads within.
Presently Malcolm glanced at the clock.
"Ten to eight," he remarked calmly. "I'll fix up that tyre. There's plenty of time before I see the Boss. I'm going to chuck my hand in and join up."