The Catastrophe.
Early September in Camp Boone, Mississippi. The darkness, alive with insects, beat in upon the mosquito-netting, beneath the shelter of which Anthony was trying to write a letter. An intermittent chatter over a poker game was going on in the next tent, and outside a man was strolling up the company street singing a current bit of doggerel about “K-K-K-Katy.”
With an effort Anthony hoisted himself to his elbow and, pencil in hand, looked down at his blank sheet of paper. Then, omitting any heading, he began:
I can’t imagine what the matter is, Gloria. I haven’t had a line from you for two weeks and it’s only natural to be worried —
He threw this away with a disturbed grunt and began again:
I don’t know what to think, Gloria. Your last letter, short, cold, without a wor
