“Do you think he will be?” Franz wanted to know, impressed by something in Jimmy’s voice.

The latter did not reply for a moment.  And then he felt that he must not only be generous but just.  So he said: 

“No, I don’t!  Sergeant Maxwell has proved himself too many times to be as straight as a die, to go wrong now.  I don’t really believe he went away purposely with my money.  He may be wounded, and have wandered into the German lines.  If he did, with that cash on him—­good-night little old five thousand francs!” and Jimmy pretended to kiss them adieu.  “And, fellows, we mustn’t forget that he may be lying dead in some rain-filled shell hole,” he went on softly.  “We’ll just suspend judgment, that’s all.  Forget the bad news about Maxwell and remember the good news about Iggy.  And we’ll all go to see Ig as soon as we can.”

“You said it!” declared Bob.  “I won’t forget how it seemed like a bit of home and heaven to me, Jimmy, when you came to the hospital where I was.  We sure will go cheer up Iggy!”

“He wants to write to his mother the worst way,” went on Jimmy.  “And he insists on writing in English.  You know how his letters read, but he simply won’t stick to Polish which he can handle all right.  It’s got to be English or nothing.”

“Did he write?” asked Roger.

“Not while I was there.  His wrist is still too sore.  But he made me promise to bring paper, a pen, and everything, when I came again, and, if he can’t write, one of us is to do it for him—­but in English, mind!”

“Well do it!” declared Bob.

It was three days later when they all received permission to go to the rear and call on Iggy who was still in the hospital, though likely to be discharged as cured inside of a week.  There was still a lull in the fighting about the sector where our five Brothers, or, rather, four, were stationed.  But there was an indefinite something in the air that told of fierce battles to come.  The Huns had too much at stake to wait long.

“Ach!  So glad it is I am to see you!” voiced Iggy, when the four were admitted to him.  “Dit you paper and pen pring!” he asked Jimmy, eagerly.  “I myself can write to mother now.  See, shmine wrist she is all so K.O. now.”

“K.O.?” cried Roger.  “What’s the commanding officer got to do with your wrist, Iggy?” For, of course, you know that the commanding officer in an army is designated as “K.O.”

“He means O.K.” declared Jimmy.  “Got his letters twisted; that’s all.  He means his wrist is all right.”

“His wrist is all right and his letter will be all write,” punned Roger.

“That will be about all from you!” commented Bob, sternly.

“Yes, Iggy, I’ve got all the makings for a first-class screed,” went on Jimmy with a smile.  “Do you want to write yourself, or shall I?”

“Myself will I do it,” said Iggy, simply.  And when, after considerable labor, mental and physical, he handed the scribbled paper to Jimmy, he said:  “Read her and see much how better as I do him in English now.  Read him,” and he indicated the letter he had written to his mother.  And, to please him, and because there was nothing very personal in the epistle, Jimmy read it.  His chums, at Iggy’s request, read it also.  And this is what Iggy’s four Brothers saw: