"Rejected," says he.
"Eh?" says I. "You—you don't mean I'm—turned down?"
He nods. "Underweight, and your eyes don't focus," says he snappy. "Here's your card. That's all."
Yes, it was a jolt. I expect I stood there blinkin' stupid at him for a minute or so before I had sense enough to drift out on the sidewalk. And I might as well admit I was feelin' mighty low. I didn't know whether to hunt up the nearest hospital, or sit down on the curb and wait until they came after me with the stretcher-cart. Anyway, I knew I must be a physical wreck. And to think I hadn't suspected it before!
Somehow I dragged back to the office, and a while later Mr. Ellins discovers me slumped in my chair with my chin down.
"Mars and Mercury!" says he. "You haven't been through a battle so soon, have you?"
At that, I tries to brace up a bit and pass it off light.
"Why didn't someone tell me I was a chronic invalid?" says I, after sketchin' out how my entry had been scratched by the chesty one. "I wonder where I could get a pair of crutches and a light-runnin' wheel chair?"
"Bah!" says he. "Some of those army officers have red-tape brains and no more common sense than he guinea-pigs. What in the name of the Seven Shahs did he think was the matter with you?"
"My eyes don't track and I weigh under the scale," says I. "I expect there's other things, too. Maybe my floatin' ribs are water-logged and my memory muscle-bound. But I'm a wreck, all right."