There
was no Christmas truce. The death-grip had come.
Germany, conscious of her superiority in men, and her hypocritical
peace offers unanimously rejected, was preparing to free herself
from the last restraint of civilization and to begin unrestricted
submarine warfare.
On Christmas morning Clayton received a letter from Chris. Evidently
it had come by hand, for it was mailed in America.
"Dear Clay: I am not at all sure that you will care to hear from me.
In fact, I have tried two or three times to write to you, and have
given it up. But I am lonelier than Billy-be-damned, and if it were
not for Audrey's letters I wouldn't care which shell got me and my
little cart.
"I don't know whether you know why I got out, or not. Perhaps you
don't. I'd been a fool and a scoundrel, and I've had time, between
fusses, to know just how rotten I've been. But I'm not going to
whine to you. What I am trying to get over is that I'm through with
the old stuff for good.
"God only knows why I am writing to you, anyhow - unless it is
because I've always thought you were pretty near right.
Pages:
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195