There is such a
difference of point of view between your politics and ours."
The deep voice of Captain Blaikie broke in.
"If Lancashire," he said grimly, "were occupied by a German army, as
the Lille district is to-day, I fancy there would be a considerable
levelling up of political points of view all round. No limelight for a
comic opposition then, Achille, old son!"
IV
Besides receiving letters, we write them. And this brings us to that
mysterious and impalpable despot, the Censor.
There is not much mystery about him really. Like a good many other
highly placed individuals, he deputes as much of his work as possible
to some one else--in this case that long-suffering maid-of-all-work,
the company officer. Let us track Bobby Little to his dug-out, during
one of those numerous periods of enforced retirement which occur
between the hours of three and six, "Pip Emma"--as our friends the
"buzzers" call the afternoon. On the floor of this retreat (which
looks like a dog-kennel and smells like a vault) he finds a small heap
of letters, deposited there for purposes of what the platoon-sergeant
calls "censure." These have to be read (which is bad); licked up
(which is far worse); signed on the outside by the officer, and
forwarded to Headquarters. Here they are stamped with the familiar
red triangle and forwarded to the Base, where they are supposed to be
scrutinised by the real Censor--i.
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