“It’s not honest.”  He formed the words with his lips now, a summing up of many thoughts in his brain.  The brain went on elaborating the text.  “She thinks I’m brave; she thinks it’s easy for me to face enlisting, and the rest.  She thinks I’m the makeup which can meet horror and suffering light-heartedly.  And I’m not.  She admires me for that—­she said so.  I’m not it.  I’m fooling her; it’s not honest.  Yet”—­he groaned aloud.  “Yet I may lose her if I tell her the truth.  I’m afraid.  I am.  I hate it.  I can’t bear—­I can’t bear to leave my job and my future, just when it’s opening out.  But I could do that.  Only I’m—­Oh, damnation—­I’m afraid.  Horror and danger, agony of men and horses, myself wounded maybe, out on No Man’s Land—­left there—­hours.  To die like a dog.  Oh, my God—­must I?  If I tell it will break the little hold I have on her.  Must I go to this devil’s dance that I hate—­and give up her love besides?  But yet—­it isn’t honest to fool her.  Oh, God, what will I do?” People walking up State Street, meeting a sober-faced young man, glanced at him with no particular interest.  A woman waiting on a doorstep regarded him idly.

“Why isn’t he in uniform?” she wondered as one does wonder in these days at a strong chap in mufti.  Then she rebuked her thought.  “Undoubtedly there’s a good reason; American boys are not slackers.”

His slow steps carried him beyond her vision and casual thought.  The people in the street and the woman on the doorstep did not think or care that what they saw was a man fighting his way through the crisis of his life, fighting alone “per aspera ad astra—­” through thorns to the stars.

He lunched with a man at a club and after that took his way to the building on Broadway where were the recruiting headquarters.  He had told her that he was going to enlist.  As he walked he stared at the people in the streets as a man might stare going to his execution.  These people went about their affairs, he considered, as if he—­who was about to die—­did not, in passing their friendly commonplace, salute them.  He did salute them.  Out of his troubled soul he sent a silent greeting to each ordinary American hurrying along, each standing to him for pleasant and peaceful America, America of all his days up to now.  Was he to toss away this comfortable comradeship, his life to be, everything he cared for on earth, to go into hell, and likely never come back?  Why?  Why must he?  There seemed to be plenty who wanted to fight—­why not let them?  It was the old slacker’s argument; the man was ashamed as he caught himself using it; he had the grace to see its selfishness and cowardice.  Yet his soul was in revolt as he drove his body to the recruiting office, and the thoughts that filled him were not of the joy of giving but of the pain of giving up.  With that he stood on the steps of the building and here was Charlie Thurston hurrying by on the sidewalk.

“Hello, Jim!  Going in to enlist?  So long till you come back with one leg and an eye out.”