"I'd give anything to go!" exclaimed Sam.
"You wouldn't want to stay on account of that girl of yours?"
"No, indeed; she would be the first to want me to go."
"Then why don't you go?"
"How can I?" said Sam. "We've got three more years here. That ties us down for that time, and by the time that's over the war will be over too."
"That's what I think, and I'm sick of this place anyhow. I'm going to resign."
"Resign!" cried Sam. "Resign and give up your career!"
"Not altogether, old man. Don't get so excited. What's the use of staying here? We'll get sent off to some out-of-the-way post when we graduate, and perhaps we'll get to be captains before our hair is white, and perhaps we shan't; and then if a war breaks out we'll have volunteers young enough to be our sons made brigadiers over our heads. Aren't they doing it every day? I'm not going to waste my life that way. I want to go to the war now, and I mean to go as a newspaper correspondent."
"Oh, Cleary!" exclaimed Sam reproachfully.
"Tut, tut, Sam. You're not up to date. We've got no field-marshals in our army and the newspaper correspondents take their place. Their names are better known than the generals, and they advertise each other and get a big share of the glory; and then they can always decently step aside when they've got enough. They needn't stay on the fighting-line, and that's a consideration. No, I'm sick of ordinary soldiering, but I'm willing to be a field-marshal. My father has an interest in the Metropolitan Daily Lyre, and I've written to him for an appointment as correspondent in the Cubapines. What I've learned here will help me a lot. But I want you to go with me."