"Why don't you try aviation?" Jimmie Wells suggested. "You ought to
make good in that. There are a lot of good fellows flying. If you want
action, the R.F.C. is the sportiest lot of all."
"I might. I didn't think of that," Thompson returned slowly. "Yes, I
believe I could fly."
"If you can fly like you drive, you'll be the goods," Jimmie asserted
cheerfully. "Tell you what, Thompson. Come on around to the Flying Corps
headquarters with me. I know a fellow there rather well, and I'll
introduce you. Not that that will get you anything, only Holmes will
give you a lot of unofficial information."
Thompson rose from the table.
"Lead me to it," said he. "I'm your man."
Getting accepted as a cadet in the Royal Flying Corps was not so simple
a matter as enlisting in the infantry. The requirements were infinitely
more rigid. The R.F.C. took only the cream of the country's manhood.
They told Thompson his age was against him--and he was only
twenty-eight. It was true. Ninety per cent. of the winged men were five
years younger. But he passed all their tests by grace of a magnificent
body that housed an active brain and steady nerves.
All this did not transpire overnight. It took days. He told no one of
his plans in the meantime, no one but Tommy Ashe, who was a trifle
disappointed when Thompson declined to handle Tommy's exceedingly
profitable motor business. Tommy seemed hurt. To make it clear that he
had a vital reason, Thompson explained tersely.
"I can't do it because I'm going to the front."
"Eh? What the devil!"
Tommy looked all the astonishment his tone expressed.
"Well, what the devil?" Thompson returned tartly. "Is there anything
strange about that? A good many men have gone. A good many more will
have to go before this thing is settled. Why not?"
"Oh, if a man feels that he should," Tommy began. He seemed at a loss
for words, and ended lamely: "There's plenty of cannon-fodder in the
country without men of your caliber wasting themselves in the trenches.
You haven't the military training nor the pull to get a commission."
Thompson's lips opened to retort with a sentence he knew would sting
like a whiplash. But he thought better of it. He would not try plucking
the mote out of another man's eye, when he had so recently got clear of
the beam in his own.
Tommy did not tarry long after that. He wished Thompson good luck, but
he left behind him the impression that he privately considered it a poor
move. Thompson was willing to concede that from a purely material
standpoint it was a poor move. But he could no longer adopt the purely
materialistic view. It had suddenly become clear to him that he must
go--and why he must go. Just as the citizen whose house gets on fire
knows beyond peradventure that he must quench the flames if it lies in
his power.