Anderson calmly repeated his assertion. He was smiling; he looked kind; but underneath that showed the will that had made him what he was.
"But I am!" flashed the young man, as if he had been misunderstood.
"Listen. You're like all boys—hot-headed an' hasty. Let me talk a little," resumed Anderson. And he began to speak of the future of the Northwest. He painted that in the straight talk of a farmer who knew, but what he predicted seemed like a fairy-tale. Then he passed to the needs of the government and the armies, and lastly the people of the nation. All depended upon the farmer! Wheat was indeed the staff of life and of victory! Young Dorn was one of the farmers who could not be spared. Patriotism was a noble thing. Fighting, however, did not alone constitute a duty and loyalty to the nation. This was an economic war, a war of peoples, and the nation that was the best fed would last longest. Adventure and the mistaken romance of war called indeed to all red-blooded young Americans. It was good that they did call. But they should not call the young farmer from his wheat-fields.
"But I've been drafted!" Dorn spoke with agitation. He seemed bewildered by Anderson's blunt eloquence. His intelligence evidently accepted the elder man's argument, but something instinctive revolted.
"There's exemption, my boy. Easy in your case," replied Anderson.
"Exemption!" echoed Dorn, and a dark tide of blood rose to his temples. "I wouldn't—I couldn't ask for that!"
"You don't need to," said the rancher. "Dorn, do you recollect that Washington official who called on you some time ago?"
"Yes," replied Dorn, slowly.
"Did he say anythin' about exemption?"
"No. He asked me if I wanted it, that's all."