"Your Ministers are athletes--yes," agreed Achille comprehendingly.

"But the--"

"Only intellectually. What I mean is that they are a very downy collection of old gentlemen--"

Achille, murmuring something hazy about "Downing Street," nodded his head.

"--And when they came into power, they knew as well as anything that after three weeks or so the country would begin to grouse--"

"Grouse? A sporting bird?" interpolated Achille.

"Exactly. They knew that the country would soon start giving them the bird--"

"What bird? The grouse?"

"Oh, dry up, Wagger!" interposed Blaikie. "He means, Pet.i.tpois, that the Government, knowing that the electorate would begin to grow impatient if the War did not immediately take a favourable turn--"

Achille smiled.

"I see now," he said. "Proceed, Ouagstaffe, my old!"

"In other words," continued the officer so addressed, "the Government decided that if they gave the Opposition half a chance to get together, and find leaders, and consolidate their new trenches, they might turn them out."

"Bien," a.s.sented Achille. Every one was listening now, for Wagstaffe as a politician usually had something original to say.

"Well," proceeded Wagstaffe, "they saw that the great thing to do was to prevent the Opposition from making an impression on the country--from being taken too seriously, in fact. So what did they do? They said: 'Let's arrange for a _comic_ Opposition--an Opposition _pour rire_, you know. They will make the country either laugh or cry.

Anyhow, the country will be much too busy deciding which to do to have any time to worry about _us_; so we shall have a splendid chance to get on with the War.' So they sent down the Strand--that's where the Variety agents foregather, I believe--what you call _entrepreneurs_, Achille--and booked this troupe, complete, for the run of the War.

They did the thing in style; spared no expense; and got a comic newspaper proprietor to write the troupe up, and themselves down.

The scheme worked beautifully--what you would call a _succes fou_, Achille."

"I am desolated, my good Ouagstaffe," observed Pet.i.tpois after a pregnant silence; "but I cannot believe all you say."

"I _may_ be wrong," admitted Wagstaffe handsomely, "but that's my reading of the situation. At any rate, Achille, you will admit that my theory squares with the known facts of the case."

Pet.i.tpois bowed politely.

"Perhaps it is I who am wrong, my dear Ouagger. There is such a difference of point of view between your politics and ours."

The deep voice of Captain Blaikie broke in.

"If Lancashire," he said grimly, "were occupied by a German army, as the Lille district is to-day, I fancy there would be a considerable levelling up of political points of view all round. No limelight for a comic opposition then, Achille, old son!"

IV

Besides receiving letters, we write them. And this brings us to that mysterious and impalpable despot, the Censor.

There is not much mystery about him really. Like a good many other highly placed individuals, he deputes as much of his work as possible to some one else--in this case that long-suffering maid-of-all-work, the company officer. Let us track Bobby Little to his dug-out, during one of those numerous periods of enforced retirement which occur between the hours of three and six, "Pip Emma"--as our friends the "buzzers" call the afternoon. On the floor of this retreat (which looks like a dog-kennel and smells like a vault) he finds a small heap of letters, deposited there for purposes of what the platoon-sergeant calls "censure." These have to be read (which is bad); licked up (which is far worse); signed on the outside by the officer, and forwarded to Headquarters. Here they are stamped with the familiar red triangle and forwarded to the Base, where they are supposed to be scrutinised by the real Censor--i.e., the gentleman who is paid for the job--and are finally despatched to their destination.

Bobby, drawing his legs well inside the kennel, out of the way of stray shrapnel bullets, begins his task.

The heap resolves itself into three parts. First come the post-cards, which give no trouble, as their secrets are written plain for all to see. There are half a dozen or so of the British Army official issue, which are designed for the benefit of those who lack the epistolatory gift--what would a woman say if you offered such things to her?--and bear upon the back the following printed statements:--

_I am quite well.

I have been admitted to hospital.

I am sick } {and am going on well.

wounded} {and hope to be discharged soon.

I have received your {letter, dated ...

{telegram, "

{parcel, "

Letter follows at first opportunity.

I have received no letter from you {lately.

{for a long time._

(The gentleman who designed this postcard must have been a descendant of Sydney Smith. You remember that great man's criticism of the Books of Euclid? He preferred the Second Book, on the ground that it was more "impa.s.sioned" than the others!)

All the sender of this impa.s.sioned missive has to do is to delete such clauses as strike him as untruthful or over-demonstrative, and sign his name. He is not allowed to add any comments of his own. On this occasion, however, one indignant gentleman has pencilled the ironical phrase, "I don't think!" opposite the line which acknowledges the receipt of a parcel. Bobby lays this aside, to be returned to the sender.

Then come some French picture post-cards. Most of these present soldiers--soldiers posing, soldiers exchanging international handgrips, soldiers grouped round a ma.s.sive and _decolletee_ lady in flowing robes, and declaring that _La patrie sera libre!_ Underneath this last, Private Ogg has written: "Dear Lizzie,--I hope this finds you well as it leaves me so. I send you a French p.c. The writing means long live the Queen of France."

The next heap consists of letters in official-looking green envelopes.

These are already sealed up, and the sender has signed the following attestation, printed on the flap: _I certify on my honour that the contents of this envelope refer to nothing but private and family matters._ Setting aside a rather bulky epistle addressed to The Editor of a popular London weekly, which advertises a circulation of over a million copies--a singularly unsuitable recipient for correspondence of a private and family nature--Bobby turns to the third heap, and sets to work upon his daily task of detecting items of information, "which if intercepted or published might prove of value to the enemy."

It is not a pleasant task to pry into another person's correspondence, but Bobby's scruples are considerably abated by the consciousness that on this occasion he is doing so with the writer's full knowledge.

Consequently it is a clear case of _caveat scriptor_. Not that Bobby's flock show any embarra.s.sment at the prospect of his scrutiny. Most of them write with the utmost frankness, whether they are conducting a love affair, or are involved in a domestic broil of the most personal nature. In fact, they seem rather to enjoy having an official audience. Others cheerfully avail themselves of this opportunity of conveying advice or reproof to those above them, by means of what the Royal Artillery call "indirect fire." Private Dunshie remarks: "We have been getting no pay these three weeks, but I doubt the officer will know what has become of the money." It is the firm conviction of every private soldier in "K(1)" that all fines and deductions go straight into the pocket of the officer who levies them. Private Hogg, always an optimist, opines: "The officers should know better how to treat us now, for they all get a read of our letters."

But, as recorded above, the outstanding feature of this correspondence is an engaging frankness. For instance, Private Cosh, who under an undemonstrative, not to say wooden, exterior evidently conceals a heart as inflammable as flannelette, is conducting single-handed no less than four parallel love affairs. One lady resides in his native Coatbridge, the second is in service in South Kensington, the third serves in a shop in Kelvinside, and the fourth moth appears to have been attracted to this most unlikely candle during our sojourn in winter billets in Hampshire. Cosh writes to them all most ardently every week--sometimes oftener--and Bobby Little, as he ploughs wearily through repeated demands for photographs, and touching protestations of lifelong affection, curses the verbose and susceptible youth with all his heart.

But this mail brings him a gleam of comfort.

_So you tell me, Chrissie_, writes Cosh to the lady in South Kensington, _that you are engaged to be married on a milkman_....

("Thank heaven!" murmurs Bobby piously.)

_No, no, Chrissie, you need not trouble yourself. It is nothing to me_.

("He's as sick as muck!" comments Bobby.)

_All I did before was in friendship's name_.

("Liar!")

Bobby, thankfully realising that his daily labours will be materially lightened by the withdrawal of the fickle Chrissie from the postal arena, ploughs steadily through the letters. Most of them begin in accordance with some approved formula, such as--