Dimples wondered if this were, after all, a competitive service. He broke into a gentle, apprehensive perspiration.
His name was called finally; he rose and followed a boy into a room where several men were seated at a table. Two of them were elderly, typical; they wore various unbecoming arrangements of white whiskers, and one glance told Dimples that they knew a lot about God. One of the others resembled a judge, and he it was who spoke first.
“You wish to go to France for the Y. M. C. A.?” the latter inquired.
“Yes, sir. They wouldn’t let me in at Plattsburg. I’m too fat, or the camp is too small. I’d very much like to go overseas.”
“It is hardly necessary to ask if you have had experience in promoting social entertainments and recreations.”
The speaker smiled. Dimples’s face broke into an answering grin.
“‘Entertainments!’ ‘Recreations!’ They are my stock in trade. I’m an authority on all kinds of both; that’s what ails me.”
Another member of the board inquired:
“Are you a temperate man, Mr. Dalrymple?”
“Oh no!” Dimples shook his head. “Not at all.”