"Well, mon amie," he said, "I can put my reasons into words, see you. Monsieur Obernai came here from Alsace five or six years ago. He could not stand the Germans, so he sold his property and came and settled here, and he has been a good friend to the village, that you cannot deny. A very quiet man, too; he lives all alone with an old housekeeper and a couple of servants, and makes himself very pleasant. When our two boys went off to the war, didn’t he give them warm vests and stuff their haversacks with cigarettes?" "Yes, he was good to our poor boys," admitted the good woman grudgingly, "but I don’t like him all the same. I don’t like his voice; it makes me shrivel." "A man speaks with the voice God gave him," said her husband. "As for me, I look at what a man does, and don’t trouble myself about his voice. And after all, it is not a bad voice." "Smooth as butter," rejoined the woman. "But there, we shall never agree, mon ami. Get on with your soup." After supper, some of the men settled down to write home. The postal regulations annoyed Ginger. "I’m a poor hand at writing," he said, "and I don’t see why I shouldn’t send my love to my wife and kids on one of these here postcards. It ain’t enough for a letter; yet if I put it on the postcard they’d destroy it, they say. What for, I’d like to know?" "It does seem hard lines," said Kenneth, "but I suppose it’s to ease the censors’ work. They’ve an enormous number of cards to look over, and they’d never get done if they had to read a lot of stuff." "’Love’ ’s a little word; that wouldn’t hurt ’em. Still, rules is rules, no doubt." He proceeded to cross out several sentences on the official postcard provided, leaving only "I am quite well" and adding his signature and the date. Presently the post corporal came to collect the letters and cards. "Captain wants you, Murgatroyd," he said. "Going to give you your stripe at last, Ginger," said Harry. "I shouldn’t wonder," said Ginger, grinning as he went out. When he returned, twenty minutes later, the expression on his face checked the congratulations that rose to his comrades’ lips. His features were grimly set, and he went to his place by the fire without uttering a word. "No luck, Ginger?" said one of the men indiscreetly. "Shut up!" growled Ginger, lighting his pipe. Nothing would induce him to explain why he had been sent for, or the reason of his annoyance. He was one of the best-behaved men in the company, and it seemed unlikely that he had got into trouble without the knowledge of the others. Wisely, they did not press him with questions, expecting that he would tell them all in good time. Ginger’s interview with Captain Adams had been a surprising one. "You know the post regulations, Murgatroyd?" said the captain. "Yes, sir." "Well, look at this postcard. Is that your signature?" "D. Murgatroyd; that’s me, sir," said Ginger, after a glance at the pencilled name.