Yours ever,
  HARRY FORDYCE.

I notice that your writing has gone to pieces rather, old man—­through writer’s cramp, I fear.  You say what looks like “you are perfectly aware that the calcalus is asphalt and not concrete.”  Of course I do know that much about it.

My letter kept the ball rolling all right, for Petherton replied:—–­

SIR,—­Have you no sane moments?  If you have any such, I should be glad if you would employ the next lucid interval in setting your affairs straight and then repairing to the nearest asylum with a request that they would protect you against yourself by placing you in a padded cell.  This done and the key lost, the world, and Surbury in particular, would be a happier place.

You cannot seriously suggest that any society for literary discussion could be formed here or elsewhere which should include yourself, and even so you must know that your being a member would prevent my joining it.

Has the call for National Service not reached your ears yet?  You appear to have plenty of leisure time on your hands which might be better employed.  Or have you offered yourself and been rejected on the grounds of mental deficiency?

  Faithfully yours,
  FREDERICK PETHERTON.

I didn’t feel called upon to make a song about my method of doing my bit, which, I am glad to say, has the approval of the authorities; but I was anxious to hear Petherton’s joints crack once more, so I wrote:—­

DEAR FREDDY,—­Your letters get better and better in style as your writing deteriorates.  I am very sorry to gather from your last that you look coldly on my scheme.  I am sure that those to whom I have mentioned the idea would decline to entertain it if it lacked your active support, so I trust you will reconsider the matter.

I am thinking over your asylum stunt.  It would certainly save some expense, and if this terrible War continues much longer it will, I fear, drive me to such a refuge; though I trust in that event that I shall be allowed to choose pleasanter wall hangings than those you suggest.  I’m rather fond of light chintzy papers, aren’t you?  They’re so cheerful.

Hoping to hear from you re our little society at your earliest ("The Surbury Literary and Scientific Society” would sound well, and would look rather nice on our note-paper—­what?)—­

  I am, yours as ever,
  HARRY.

Petherton saw red again and bellowed at me, thus:—­

SIR,—­ ——­ you and your beastly society.  I don’t know who is the more execrable, you or the KAISER.

  Faithfully yours,
  FREDERIC PETHERTON.

Common decency compelled me to reply, so I wrote:—­

MY DEAR OLD BOY.—­You don’t know how grieved I am to hear that you cannot entertain the scheme.

Of course I can read between the lines, and know that your heart is in it, and that it is only the many calls on your time which prevent your active co-operation with me in the matter.  Of course, needless to say, your lack of support has killed what looked like being a promising scientific bantling (through stress of emotion I nearly wrote “bantam,” which brings me to the subject of poultry.  How are yours?  I forgot to ask before).