“What’s your name?”

    “Steve Bishop.”

    “All right, Steve, come in and see me the next time you’re in town,”
    said the corporal, rising.  “We’ll talk it over.”

    And, mounting his motor cycle, he was gone down the road in a whirl
    of red dust.  Nor did the farmer boy think to wonder at the sudden
    recovery of the apparently stalled machine.

    “Missionary work,” explains the corporal.  “We never beg ’em to join;
    but we do sort of give ’em the idea.  Like joinin’ the Masons, you
    know,” he winked, giving me the grip.

    So it happened that Steve Bishop mounted the stairs that day,
    resolved to join the army if they would take him.

In the small, bare, but immaculately clean room at the head of the stairs he found his friend the corporal banging away at a typewriter.  “How are you, Steve?  Glad to see you,” was the welcome.  “Sit down a minute, and we’ll talk.”

    The soldier finished his page, lit his pipe again, and leisurely
    swung round in his chair.

    “Think you’ll like to soldier with us?” he said.

    Unconsciously the boy appreciated the compliment; it was flattering
    to be considered on a basis of equality with this clean-cut, rugged
    man of the wide world.

    “I reckon so,” he replied, almost timidly.

    “Well, how old are you, Steve?”

    “Twenty-one.”  The corporal nodded approval.  That was all right,
    then; no tedious formality of securing signed permission from parent
    or guardian was necessary.

Then began a string of personal questions as to previous employment, education, details of physical condition, moral record (for the army will have no ex-jailbirds), etc., and finally the question, “Why do you want to join?”

“They don’t know why I ask that,” says the corporal, “but I have a mighty good reason.  From the way a boy answers I can decide which branch of the service he ought to be connected with.  If he wants to be a soldier just for travel and adventure, I advise the infantry or the cavalry; but if he seriously wants to learn and study, I recommend him to the coast artillery or the engineers.”

Then comes the physical examination, a vigorous but not exacting course of sprouts designed to find out if the applicant is capable of violent exertion and to discover any minor weaknesses; an examination of eyes, ears, teeth, and nose; and, finally, a cursory scrutiny for functional disorders.

    “I’ll take you, Steve,” the corporal finally says.  “In about a week
    we’ll send you to the barracks.”

    “But what am I goin’ to do till then?  I ain’t got a cent.”