“About what, Gordon?”
“About the war—and myself.”
“I wonder if we’re really going to have war, Gordon?”
“We are! There’s not a doubt about it. They’re expecting it at the Works and preparing accordingly.”
“Mother told me last night you’d been promoted again. I’m glad you’re doing so finely. I’m really proud of you!”
“That’s just the trouble, Madge. Sooner or later I’ve got to reach a decision.”
“What sort of decision?”
“Whether I’m going to be a ‘desk cootie’ through this Big Show, or whether I’m going to do my stunt like a he-man.”
“Explain a little more fully, Gordon. Do you mean——”
“If we get into the Big Show, there’s going to be a draft. Everybody’s talking about it down at the office. There’s no other way, with so much factional feeling among these hyphenated Americans. If they have a draft, it’s only reasonable to suppose that certain of us who know our jobs extra well at home may be ordered to enlist and yet to remain on those jobs as being more valuable at home than stabbing Germans. It looks as if that sort of thing might come to me—old Dalliworth is making plans along that line already. And Madge—I—I——”