The looming up of a second lieutenant in their path brought three hands up in smart salute and temporarily closed further discussion of Bixton. Reaching the Y. M. C. A., Jimmy distributed note-paper with a lavish hand and soon the trio had settled themselves on hard benches before the primitive-looking desks to write their letters. Provided with an extra fountain pen of Jimmy's, Ignace stared blankly at the wall, sighed profoundly, gingerly tried the pen, and finally gave himself up to the painful throes of composition. Jimmy dashed into his letter-writing with his usual reckless impetuosity, his pen tearing over the paper at a rapid rate. In consequence he was triumphantly signing "Jimmy" to his second letter before Roger had half finished his carefully worded note to Mrs. Blaise. "Hurry up, slow-pokes. It's eight-ten," adjured Jimmy, as he scrawled an address across an envelope. "Him is done," proudly announced Ignace, holding up his epistolary effort. Undated and unpunctuated, it began at the very top of the sheet and ended halfway from the bottom of the first page. "Now you read." He proffered it to Jimmy. The latter took it and with difficulty kept a sober face as he read: "poor mi mothar so am i the bad son wen i run away but i can no stan the bete my fathar giv all tim now am i the solder an he can no get mor i sen you the monee wen i get som tim i hav the 3 brothar now i hapee but no wen think you poor mi mothar from you son Ignace." "That's a good letter, Iggy." Jimmy had lost his desire to laugh as he handed it back. It had begun to strike him as pathetic. He was wondering how it had happened that before meeting the poor Polish boy he had never credited that humbler half of the world, in which Ignace had lived, with human emotions. "I can the read better the write," assured Ignace grandly, well pleased with the other's praise. "I write the name, the street my mother, you write again this?" he asked, holding up an envelope. Much amused, Jimmy complied. Ignace surveyed the envelope with admiration. "How gran' is the write my brother," he commented. "Some compliment. Here's a stamp, Iggy. Stick it on and away we go. Finished yet, old top?" This to Roger. "Yes." Methodically Roger sealed and stamped the envelope he had just addressed. "Look who's here!" exclaimed Jimmy. His gaze roving idly down the big room, he had spied Bob Dalton just entering it. Discovering his chums in the same instant, Bob steered straight for them, his black eyes twinkling with mischief. "Three whoops for Mysterious Myra," he hailed, waving a little sheaf of papers above his head. "Got through typing sooner than I expected, so I beat it over here in a hurry. This is an exclusive stunt. It calls for an exclusive place. Too much publicity at the barrack. Come on over in that corner and help yourself to a front seat while I read you Dalton's Marvelous Military Maneuvers in Rhyme, respectfully dedicated to the daily use of Ignace So Pulinski."