"Peter has sailed for home, wooden leg and all," said Henry. "I got a letter yesterday from Jack Davenport. Except for the sneaking Hun submarines, Peter is fairly safe now."
"I hope he makes the farm," said Dick. "He was homesick for it every minute and working out crop rotations on the backs of letters every night, in the line and out—except when he was fighting."
"There was something about you in Jack's letter. He says that offer still stands, and he seems as anxious as ever about it."
Dick sat down on the fire step, thrust out his muddy feet on the duck boards and gazed at them. He scratched himself meditatively in several places.
"I'd like fine to be an officer," he said at last. "Almost any one would. But I don't want to leave this bunch just now. Jack's crowd will want officers in six months just as much as now—maybe more; and if I'm lucky—still in fighting shape six months from now—I'll be better able to handle the job."
"I'll write that to Jack," said Henry. "He will understand—and your platoon commander will be pleased. He and the adjutant talked to me to-day as if something were coming to you—a D. C. M., I think. What happened to your first adjutant, Capt. Long, by the way?"
"Long's gone west," replied Dick briefly.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Shell get him?"
"No, sniper. He took one chance too many."
"I heard at the brigade on my way in that your friend, Dave Hammer, has his commission. I wonder if they have told him yet."