"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.
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