He did not know how, or in what capacity he was going to the front, but he was going, and the manner of his going did not concern him greatly.  It mattered little how he went, so long as he went in the service of his country.  A little of his haste was born of the sudden realization that he had a country which needed his services—­and that he desired to serve.  It had passed an emotional phase with him.  He saw it very clearly as a duty.  He did not foresee or anticipate either pleasure or glory in the undertaking.  He had no illusions about war.  It was quite on the cards that he might never come back.  But he had to go.

So then he had only to determine how he should go.

That problem, which was less a problem than a matter of making choice, was solved that very day at luncheon.  As he sat at a table in a downtown cafe there came to him a figure in khaki, wearing a short, close-fitting jacket with an odd emblem on the left sleeve—­a young fellow who hailed Thompson with a hearty grip and a friendly grin.  He sat himself in a chair vis-a-vis, laying his funny, wedge-shaped cap on the table.

“I’ve been wondering what had become of you, Jimmie,” Thompson said.  “I see now.  Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“East,” the other returned tersely.  “Training.  Got my wings.  Off to England day after to-morrow.  How’s everything with you, these days?”

Thompson looked his man over thoroughly.  Jimmie Wells was the youngest of the four sons of a wealthy man.  The other three were at the front, one of them already taking his long rest under a white, wooden cross somewhere in France.  Jimmie looked brown and fit.  A momentary pang of regret stung Thompson.  He wished he too were standing in uniform, ready for overseas.

“I’ve just wound up my business,” he said.  “I’m going to the front myself, Jimmie.”

“Good,” Wells approved.  “What branch?”

“I don’t know yet,” Thompson replied.  “I made up my mind in a hurry.  I’m just setting out to find where I’ll fit in best.”

“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.