"But I want to get in," the young man protested. "I won't feel right until I am in service."
"You left that psychiatrist too soon," I muttered. "Anyway, what do you expect me to do?"
"Why, I was sure you could help me," the young man said. "You're the Soldier's Friend, aren't you? You write the column of advice to the Yanks in the Standard, don't you?"
I got it then. This wraith thought I was the Soldier's Friend. That's why he was spilling himself to me.
He continued. "You know all the angles of the various branches of the Service, and I hoped you'd be able to recommend some branch that could use me. I'm willing to do anything or go anywhere. If you'll help me I'll put myself completely in your hands."
"Now just a minute," I said. "You've got the wrong idea. The guy you want to see—"
I closed my big mouth with a snap. What was wrong with me? Were my brains on a permanent vacation? Here was opportunity hammering and banging at my door and I was too deaf to hear a sound.
This hard-to-see young man was a natural for show business. I already had an act lined up that he would fit as neatly as five fingers in a glove. And he was practically begging me to take him under my wing.
"Young man," I said. "You impress me as being sincere and earnest. And for that reason I am going to try and help you."
"Oh, gosh, thanks."