I am sure you are stunned by the above form of address. However, it’s not so far wrong. There’s going to be a little conscript--or a little mamma--for the class of 1937 who will look like me, I hope, and you are ex-officio godfather. Now, no objections! I heard about it only the other day on our arrival in Bergen. The letter had been chasing around after me for two months, but we have rolled about so during that time--and then, too, the censor held up the letters in Greece--that it’s a brand-new future papa who sends you this announcement. If you don’t congratulate me, you are no friend of mine! That will do for family history. But you know such a thing doesn’t happen every day in a man’s life. Don’t think I’m bragging because there’s going to be a little post-card for which I made the design. No, old man, I’m not trying to come it over you. Just do the same when you can--and if you can--and we’ll call it square. And if you have the luck to be the first to see my little beggar, male or female, embrace the mother and the baby for me. You know that I mean it with all my heart. It’s so long since I wrote you last, that I can’t remember where I posted the letter. I believe you were in dry-dock at Bizerta and I was waiting at Argostoli. If I repeat myself, pass over that part and begin where I left off. Here is where we have been: Argostoli, Messina, Ajaccio (but that was extra as you shall see), Lisbon, Bilbao, Brest, Liverpool, Bergen, and the Norwegian ports where the _Pamir_ is collecting wood. And we’ve wasted no time either at sea or in port, as you will find. This time our work has been useful, and except for the German blockade which catches us in Norway, everything is going well. But I will do as Villiers does when he argues--take one thing at a time!