Pressing about Pee-wee, the scouts read eagerly the contents of that old musty oilskin memento of the days when Camp Merritt was a seething community of boys in khaki. The big spiders lurked in their webs; the repulsive little slugs, made homeless by the lifting of a damp, rotten board, hurried frantically about on the floor; a single ray of sunlight penetrated through a crevice, a slanting, dusty line, and lit up a little area of the dim, musty place. But there was no sound, not even from the scouts, save only the voice of Westy Martin as he read that old, creased, damp, all but undecipherable letter: _Dear Old Mother:_ I was hoping I might get down to Hicksville before we sail, but I guess I can't. They don't tell us much here but it seems to be in the air that we'll sail in a day or two. Feeling pretty disappointed because I wanted to see you again and say good-bye and have just one good home-cooked meal. I'm sick of beans and black coffee. Don't worry, you'll hear from me in France. I don't suppose you'll be able to get the end of the porch fixed up, but try to get the window put in before winter. I meant to do that myself. Put a pail under the drain so the water won't flood under the woodshed. Tell Don to be a good watch dog and be sure to tie him outside at night. I don't suppose you'll hear from me again till we get across. Don't worry, pretty soon it will all be over and I'll come marching home and you'll be telling people it was me that won the war and I'll be glad to get a good squint at my old N. C. hills. It will be over before you know it. Now you have to be brave, see? Just like you were when dad died. Remember what you said then? Now don't think this is good-bye because I'm sailing but remember the Atlantic Ocean isn't a one way street. Just chalk that up on the wall, and speaking about oceans don't forget about the water by the woodshed and do what I told you. So now good-bye dear old Mum and don't worry, and I won't go near Paris like you said. Hicksville is good enough for me. Your loving son. There was something about this old missive which sobered the bantering troop of scouts and made even Pee-wee quiet and thoughtful. "It's a letter he was going to send," Artie Van Arlen finally said. "Who?" Doc Carson asked. Artie shrugged his shoulders. "Somebody or other, that's all _we_ know," he said. "We don't even know who he was going to send it to; there are a whole lot of dear old mothers." "You said it," commented Roy. "Let's see the other papers," one of the scouts said.