“What’ve you got to be happy about?”
“I was thinking how alive we are, and how dead you and I might be,” said Doggie.
“Well, I don’t think it funny thinking how one might be dead,” replied Penworthy. “It gives me the creeps. It’s all very well for you. You’ll stump around for the rest of your life like a gentleman on a wooden leg. Chaps like you have all the luck; but as soon as I get out of this, I’ll be passed fit for active service … and not so much of your larfing at not being dead. See?”
“All right, mate,” said Doggie. “Good night.”
Penworthy made no immediate reply; but presently he broke out:
“What d’you mean by talking like that? I’d hate being dead.”
A voice from the far end of the room luridly requested that the conversation should cease. Silence reigned.
A letter from Jeanne. The envelope bore a French stamp with the Frélus postmark, and the address was in a bold feminine hand. From whom could it be but Jeanne? His heart gave a ridiculous leap and he tore the envelope open as he had never torn open envelope of Peggy’s. But at the first two words the leap seemed to be one in mid-air, and his heart went down, down, down like an aeroplane done in, and arrived with a hideous bump upon rocks.
“Cher Monsieur”