there's a good reason; American boys are not slackers."

His slow steps carried him beyond her vision and casual thought. The
people in the street and the woman on the doorstep did not think or care
that what they saw was a man fighting his way through the crisis of his
life, fighting alone "per aspera ad astra--" through thorns to the
stars.

He lunched with a man at a club and after that took his way to the
building on Broadway where were the recruiting headquarters. He had told
her that he was going to enlist. As he walked he stared at the people in
the streets as a man might stare going to his execution. These people
went about their affairs, he considered, as if he--who was about to
die--did not, in passing their friendly commonplace, salute them. He did
salute them. Out of his troubled soul he sent a silent greeting to each
ordinary American hurrying along, each standing to him for pleasant and
peaceful America, America of all his days up to now. Was he to toss away
this comfortable comradeship, his life to be, everything he cared for on
earth, to go into hell, and likely never come back? Why? Why must he?
There seemed to be plenty who wanted to fight--why not let them? It was
the old slacker's argument; the man was ashamed as he caught himself
using it; he had the grace to see its selfishness and cowardice. Yet his
soul was in revolt as he drove his body to the recruiting office, and
the thoughts that filled him were not of the joy of giving but of the
pain of giving up. With that he stood on the steps of the building and
here was Charlie Thurston hurrying by on the sidewalk.

"Hello, Jim! Going in to enlist? So long till you come back with one leg
and an eye out."