"Neither do I," sputtered Jimmy. "He was trying to make a show of Iggy. I'll hand him one myself some of these fine days." "Ruddy and I'll come to see both our brothers when they land in the 'jug' for scrapping," offered Bob, affably sarcastic. "Won't we, Rud?" "No, _I_ won't." Roger looked severe. "If you two are going to let that Bixton fellow rattle you, then I can't say much for your good sense. Give him the icy stare a few times and he'll stay in his own corner. Just as long as he sees he can bother you, he'll do it. When he finds he can't, he'll quit and start on somebody else. But that won't be your lookout." "I try't," promised Ignace. His scowling features clearing, he proceeded to devote himself sedulously to the savory portion of stew in the meat can before him. Nor were his companions loath to drop the unpleasant subject of Bixton for a hungry appreciation of their food. The meal finished, the four dutifully cleansed their mess-kits, returning with them to their barrack. The evening meal over, the pleasantest relaxation period of their camp day lay before them. Until the 9:45 call to quarters they were free to follow their own bent, so long as it did not take them beyond camp limits. After putting away his mess-kit, Bob's first move was to reach under his cot for the suitcase in which he had deposited his precious papers. A respectful audience of three stood watching him, mildly curious as to what he intended to do next. "Does the great stunt come off now?" smiled Roger. "Not yet, my boy. I'm going out on the trail of a typewriter first. It breaks my heart to leave you, but it must be did. Half an hour's clickety-clicking and you'll see me back here in all my glory. If the machine downstairs isn't working overtime, maybe I can grab it for a while." "Let's go over to the 'Y' and write letters," proposed Jimmy. "Our room's better than our company with old Mysterious Myra here. If I don't answer mine bang-up quick, I'll never write 'em. Here's enough paper and envelopes for the bunch." Reaching under his cot he held up a good-sized box of stationery. "I would to poor my mother a letter in American write, but she can no read that write," offered Ignace sadly. "I can the American read and write but no my family. My mother un'erstan' American little but no read." "Write it in Polish, then," suggested Jimmy. "You don't have to write it in English, do you?" "But I want show poor my mother how that I am smart it to do." Ignace was bent on distinguishing himself. "She it would much please." "Couldn't someone read it to her, then?" asked Bob. "One of her neighbors; or maybe your groceryman." Familiar with the Polish section of the city from whence Ignace had come, Bob was somewhat acquainted with the ways of the clannish Poles. He knew that they were prone to gravitate to the grocery store in their neighborhood for everything from merchandise to general information.