The boy shook his head. “Nothin’ doin’. She wanted me to have a job with you.” Suddenly he brightened up. “Boss, could I have a half-day off to-morrow?” “Take it all if you like. Looking for another place?” The boy thanked him without replying. Jeremy went to Dr. Summerfield’s office where he was duly stripped, prodded, poked, flexed, and stethoscoped by that slim, dry, brief-spoken physician. When it was over the doctor leaned back in his chair and contemplated his caller. “Want to get into the army, eh?” “Yes.” “What for?” “To fight, of course.” “Is n’t there enough fight right here?” “It is n’t the same.” “Certainly it is n’t. No flags. No ta-rum-ta-ra. No khaki, brave soldier-boy, hero-stuff. Eh?” “I notice you went, fast enough. And you’re going again, are n’t you?” “Different matter. I don’t own a trouble-making newspaper. What are you going to do with it?” “The Guardian? Sell it.” “To whom?” “A. M. Wymett.” “He’s a figurehead. What’s behind him?” “I don’t know.” “Nor want to, I guess.” “I don’t care.” “‘I don’t care,’” mimicked the physician. “You talk like a spoiled kid. Are you going to act like one?” “I want to get in it! I want to get in it!” cried Jeremy. “Or out of it? Which?” “Doc, if you were n’t an old friend--” “You’d punch my nose. I know. You’ll do ’most anything to prove to yourself that you’ll fight ’most anything. Except the enemy that most needs your kind of fighting.” “I’ve been doing nothing but fight,” said Jeremy wearily. “And now you want to quit.” “I’ve had about enough of that word, quit.” “Somebody else been using it to you? Ugly little whippet of a word, ain’t it! Well, you’re not going to profit by it, at least not with any nice, little, heroic, ready-made excuse to comfort yourself with. That much I’ve just heard over the telephone.” “Telephone?” “This one.” He tapped his stethoscope. “Straight from Central. Were you in athletics in college?” “Yes. Golf. Some football. Cross-country run.” “That’s it; the distance run. Been under some nervous strain, lately, too?” “Try to run The Guardian for a month and see!” “Well, the college athletics began it, and overwork and worry have brought it out. Those endurance tests will get a boy’s heart--” “Heart! Have I got heart-disease? What kind?” “Never mind the big names. Nothing to worry over. You’ll live a hundred years for all of it. But it’s there all right.” “I don’t believe it.” “Try another physician, then, my spoiled child.” “I beg your pardon, doc. Of course, I know it’s right if you say so. But it--it’s--” “Rather a soaker, eh? Don’t let it worry you. You’re sound enough to go ahead and raise any amount of Hades here, so far as your heart goes. I won’t say so much for your nerves.” “It is n’t that.”