The general grinned and walked across the room to an open window. He stood there for half a minute, with his hands behind his back. He turned suddenly, strode back and laid a hand on the airman’s shoulder.
“If you feel fit for it, Akerley, I shall be glad to have you carry on,” he said. “The past year can be called sick-leave. There was something of the sort due you, anyway.”
Tom changed color several times before he found his voice.
“I feel fit for a fight, sir—but not for peace-time duty, I’m afraid,” he replied. “I feel that I need to be in the woods, sir, where I’ve been ever since last June. But if you will put me in the Reserve, sir, so that I may come back if needed—to fight, you know—I’ll be very much obliged,—as I am about everything now—more than I can say.”
“That shall be done,” said the general. And then he added, “So you’ve been in the woods? What did you do in the woods?”
“Farmed and trapped, sir. It’s a great life.”
“I believe you. Have you bought land?”
“Not yet, sir; but I hope to do so.”
“That reminds me! You must go to the Pay Office. Show them this receipt for the machine you brought back.”
Then the general walked Tom to the door, still with a hand on his shoulder, and opened the door. They halted and faced each other on the threshold.