There were those who said it was made up largely of faddists, well-to-do women and their followers who were looking for something new and amusing, but this was not entirely the truth. Others said that the camps had too much of the "betterment business," but the Woman's League workers did not preach; they exerted only an insistent, healthy influence.
Most of the inhabitants of Camp Wheeler, even largely the officers, fell for this sort of treatment when on leave; and among them, in time, were Herb Whitcomb and Roy Flynn.
The League gave several dinners and most properly conducted dances, the invitations being nicely managed so as to include everyone in turn. One Saturday afternoon the two Brighton boys were booked for a tennis tournament against several couples picked from other companies.
Herb never did find out how they were chosen to represent their company, nor would Roy admit that it had been his doings. The latter could play a fine game himself, but he very justly lauded his chum.
Herb's service was superb, his returns were nearly all well placed smashes, his net play was a revelation to most of the onlookers. Company H took the first prize easily and a young and blushing girl, standing by the general, tendered it to Herb and Roy, the latter looking right at her with a wide but most respectful grin. Herb did not know even what she looked like; he knew she was a girl only by the toe of her boot and all he heard was the final comment of the general.
"Fine work, my boy! I used to be pretty good at tennis myself. Had the honor of playing with Colonel Roosevelt once when he was in the White House. Remember, lad, I have my eye on you. If you can shoot half as good as you can get a ball over the net——"
"Much better, sir; much better!" struck in Roy, and the commander smiled and waved his hand, the crowd cheered and an orchestra struck up some popular selections.
Following this Herb and Roy found themselves invited to a private affair on a Sunday afternoon, along with four other rookies. On the Saturday preceding the event the six were ordered to report to regimental headquarters.
They filed in, saluting Colonel Walling, who looked them over closely, then began asking questions as to their families, bringing up, school life and teachings and present ideas, though not one of them knew what it was all about. It proved to be a rather solemn occasion until the questions came to Roy Flynn. That lad needed no prompting, having caught the drift from the previous questions.
"If me name is Flynn, sir, I'm neither Dutch, French nor Italian, and though me folks is Hibernian and so emerald green that a shamrock looks like a blue daisy alongside, don't believe nothin' else but what I'm so high-pressure American that the sky above has nothin' on me for true blue. I want most of all in this world to get to the happy hunting-ground in the next, but close second to that is the wish to see the Germans get it in the windpipe, proper and right. Do ye get me, sir?"