Eleanor Cross, bah!
Yours flly., F. PETHERTON.
I thought it was time to emerge from my literary camouflage and let
off a heavy howitzer; which I did, with the following:--
Dear Freddy,--I am afraid you have got hold of the wrong end of the
stick and laid an egg in a mare's nest. [These mixed metaphors were
designed to tease him into a further barrage.] I did not write, and
I do not remember saying that I had written, the letter to the paper
which seems to have given you as much pleasure as it has given me.
I had no hand in the symposium, but the way you have brought your
Chesterfield battery into action has been so masterly that I, for one,
can never regret that you were misinformed. I believe the particular
letter to _The Gazette_ was written by one of the staff, a native of
the place, who probably carved his name on the base in his youth, and
has felt a personal interest in the Cross ever since. I hope with this
new light on the affair you will favour me with your further views on
history and archaeology.
Yours ever, Harry.
How lovely the blackberries are looking after the rain!
But I couldn't draw Petherton's fire again, for his gun had been
knocked out by this direct hit.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Excitable Lady (describing to wounded Tommies the
appearance of a bomb-hole on the London Front).
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