TUDOR HOUSE. 
          CHELTENHAM,
               Tuesday.

DARLING MUMMY: 

Daddy doesn’t understand.  You only think he does because you like him.  It’s all rot what he says about esprit de corps, the putridest rot, though I know he doesn’t mean it.

And he’s wrong about gym, and drill and games and all that.  I don’t mind gym, and I don’t mind drill, and I like games.  I’m fairly good at most of them—­except footer.  All the fellows say I’m fairly good—­otherwise I don’t suppose they’d stick me for a minute.  I don’t even mind Chapel.  You see, when it’s only your body doing what the other chaps do, it doesn’t seem to matter.  If esprit de corps was esprit de corps it would be all right.  But it’s esprit d’esprit.  And it’s absolutely sickening the things they can do to your mind.  I can’t stand another term of it.

     Always your loving
          MICK. 
P.S.-How do you know I shan’t be dead in ten or
fifteen years’ time?  It’s enough to make me.

P.P.S.-It’s all very well for Daddy to talk—­he doesn’t want to learn Chinese.

     TUDOR HOUSE. 
          CHELTENHAM,
               Thursday.

DEAR FATHER: 

All right.  Have it your own way.  Only I shall kill myself.  You needn’t tell Mother that—­though it won’t matter so much as she’ll very likely think.  And perhaps then you won’t try and stop Nicky going into the Army as you’ve stopped me.

I don’t care a “ram”, as Nicky would say, whether you bury me or cremate me; only you might give my Theocritus to old Parsons, and my revolver to Nicky if it doesn’t burst.  He’d like it.

     MICHAEL.

P.S.—­If Parsons would rather have my AEschylus he can, or both.

     TUDOR HOUSE. 
          CHELTENHAM,
               Sunday.

DARLING MUMMY: 

It’s your turn for a letter.  Do you think Daddy’d let me turn the hen-house into a workshop next holidays, as there aren’t any hens?  And would he give me a proper lathe for turning steel and brass and stuff for my next birthday I’m afraid it’ll cost an awful lot; but he could take it out of my other birthdays, I don’t mind how many so long as I can have the lathe this one.

This place isn’t half bad once you get used to it.  I like the fellows, and all the masters are really jolly decent, though I wish we had old Parsons here instead of the one we have to do Greek for.  He’s an awful chap to make you swot.

I don’t know what you mean about Mick being seedy.  He’s as fit as fit.  You should see him when he’s stripped.  But he hates the place like poison half the time.  He can’t stand being with a lot of fellows.  He’s a rum chap because they all like him no end, the masters and the fellows, though they think he’s funny, all except Hartley major, but he’s such a measly little blighter that he doesn’t count.