Burned Bridges

"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.