Loan. First, how was he to stop being a peaceful reporter on the
_Daybreak_ and get into uniform; that wonder covered a class including
the army, navy and air-service, for he had been refused by all three; he
wondered how a small limp from apple-tree acrobatics at ten might be so
explained away that he might pass; reluctantly he wondered also about
the Y.M.C.A. But he was a fighting man _par excellence_. For him it
would feel like slacking to go into any but fighting service. Six feet
two and weighing a hundred and ninety, every ounce possible to be muscle
was muscle; easy, joyful twenty-four-year-old muscle which knew nothing
of fatigue. He was certain he would make a fit soldier for Uncle Sam,
and how, how he wanted to be Uncle Sam's soldier!

He was getting desperate. Every man he knew in the twenties and many a
one under and over, was in uniform; bitterly he envied the proud peace
in their eyes when he met them. He could not bear to explain things once
more as he had explained today to Tom Arnold and "Beef" Johnson, and
"Seraph" Olcott, home on leave before sailing for France. He had
suffered while they listened courteously and hurried to say that they
understood, that it was a shame, and that: "You'll make it yet, old
son." And they had then turned to each other comparing notes of camps.
It made little impression that he had toiled and sweated early and late
in this struggle to get in somewhere--army, navy, air-service--anything
to follow the flag. He wasn't allowed. He was still a reporter on the
_Daybreak_ while the biggest doings of humanity were getting done, and
every young son of America had his chance to help. With a strong,
tireless body aching for soldier's work, America, his mother, refused
him work. He wasn't allowed.

Lance groaned, sitting in his one big chair in his one small room. There
were other problems. A Liberty Loan drive was on, and where could he lay