"Why so? I send Josiah for my mail."
"Oh, there were three cold-blooded men-machines returning letters. I watched them marking the letters—'not found'—'missing'—and so on."
"Killed, I suppose—or prisoners."
"Yes, awful, indeed—most sorrowful! Imagine it! Others were forwarding letters—heaps of them—from men who may be dead. You know how apt men are to write letters before a battle."
"I wait till it is over," said Penhallow.
"That post-office gave me a fit of craving for home and peace."
"Home-sickness! What, you, Blake!"
"Oh, that worst kind; home-sickness for a home when you have no home. I wonder if in that other world we shall be home-sick for this."
"That depends. Ah! here comes a reminder that we are in this world just now—and just as we have begun one of our real talks."
An orderly appeared with a note. Penhallow read it. He was on his feet at once. "Saddle Hoodoo, Josiah. I must go. Come soon again, Blake. We have had a good talk—or a bit of one."