“‘Sick?’” the big fellow echoed. “I’m not sick; I’m dying.” And, since it was good to share his burden, he related what had happened to him. “Turned me down; wouldn’t give me a chance,” he concluded. “When I strained the scales, they wanted to know who I had in my lap. I’ve been banting lately, but I gain weight at it. It agrees with me. Meanwhile, Shipp and the others are in uniform.” Dimples bowed his head in his huge, plump hands. “Think of it! Why, I’d give a leg to be in olive drab and wear metal letters on my collar! ‘Sick?’ Good Lord!”
“I know,” the friend nodded. “I’m too old to go across, but I’m off for Washington Monday. A dollar a year. I’ve been drawing fifty thousand, by the way.”
“I’m out of that, too,” Dimples sighed. “Don’t know enough—never did anything useful. But I could fight, if they’d let me.” He raised his broad face and his eyes were glowing. “I’m fat, but I could fight. I could keep the fellows on their toes and make ’em hit the line. If—if they built ships bigger, I’d stowaway.”
“See here—” The speaker had a sudden thought. “Why don’t you try the Y?”
“‘The Y?’ Yale?”
“No, no. The Y. M. C. A.”
“Oh, that! I’ve hired a whole gymnasium of my own where I can swear out loud.”
“The Y. M. C. A. is sending men overseas.”
“I’m not cut out for a chaplain.”
“They’re sending them over to cheer up the boys, to keep them amused and entertained, to run huts—”