Petitpois 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 “impassioned” than the others!)

All the sender of this impassioned 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.