So it happened that Steve Bishop mounted the stairs that day,
resolved to join the army if they would take him.

In the small, bare, but immaculately clean room at the head of the
stairs he found his friend the corporal banging away at a
typewriter. "How are you, Steve? Glad to see you," was the welcome.
"Sit down a minute, and we'll talk."

The soldier finished his page, lit his pipe again, and leisurely
swung round in his chair.

"Think you'll like to soldier with us?" he said.

Unconsciously the boy appreciated the compliment; it was flattering
to be considered on a basis of equality with this clean-cut, rugged
man of the wide world.

"I reckon so," he replied, almost timidly.

"Well, how old are you, Steve?"

"Twenty-one." The corporal nodded approval. That was all right,
then; no tedious formality of securing signed permission from parent
or guardian was necessary.

Then began a string of personal questions as to previous employment,
education, details of physical condition, moral record (for the army
will have no ex-jailbirds), etc., and finally the question, "Why do
you want to join?"