“To resign the best job I ever will have, Mr. Ricks.”
Mr. Daniels hitched his chair close to his employer's desk. “Boss,” he said, “I'm awful sorry, but I'm goin' soldiering.”
Cappy Ricks sprang to his feet with an oath. “You're not!” he shouted. “I won't hear of it. You're too valuable a man to go into the army and get yourself killed—particularly since you can do your share at home. Why, I was just going to write you and give you your orders for patriotic duty. You go back to the ranch, Sam, and get busy. Plant spuds, wheat, oats, barley, corn—plant all you can of it. Raise heifers, sheep, hogs, cows, bulls, calves, turkeys—everything that can be eaten. Raise horses—and in particular, raise mules.”
“I'd rather raise hell with a bunch of Germans,” Sam Daniels declared feelingly.
“Your job is to help produce cereals and canned beef for the hell-raisers,” Cappy declared. “The army will want horses for the artillery and mules for the transport. Why, this war may last for years. Sam, you infernal scoundrel, you get back on the farm. You're forty-five years old and you've been shot and whittled enough in your day to last you the remainder of your natural life. Let the young fellows do the fighting abroad, while you and I and the other hasbeens do it at home.”
“I'd a heap rather lay off in the brush somewheres an' snipe Germans,” Mr. Daniels pleaded. “On the level, boss, if they'll give me a Springfield rifle with telescopic sights I'll guarantee to sicken anythin' I get a fair sight on at a thousand yards.”
“In-fer-nal scoundrel! How dare you argue with me! You get back on your job!”
“Boss, I'm going into the army,” Daniels announced sadly, but nevertheless firmly. “I'm givin' you a month's notice so you can get a man to take my place.”
Cappy surrendered. “All right, Sam. If you survive, your job will be waiting for you when you get back. However, you needn't give me any notice. I'll have another man in charge of the ranch to-morrow, and you can enlist today.”
“And you're not sore at me, Mr. Ricks?”