It was during the week that followed the sinking of the _Lusitania_ that Potter was introduced to a Major Craig, of that then comparatively unknown branch of the United States military machinery known as the Signal Corps. It was at the Country Club, and Potter, who was seldom drawn to an individual, felt something much akin to boyish admiration for the slender, trim, uniformed figure of the young major. Craig was young for a major. He might have been forty, but a well-spent man's life made him appear younger. He had not the face we have taken as typical of our soldier, but rather the softer, gentler features of the enthusiast--not the sharp, hungry look of the fanatic. He was a man with one compelling interest in life, a man bound to his profession, not by duty, but by love. Something of this was apparent at a glance. It became plain upon acquaintance. There was something about him--not the uniform he wore--but a subtle characteristic which set him apart from the run of men. He was distinct. After half an hour's chat with him Potter perceived that the major was something wholly outside his experience, and he was interested. He was interested in the major's conversation, in his appearance, but chiefly in that peculiar something which made Craig different from La Mothe or Kraemer or O'Mera. The others who had gathered about the table wandered off upon the links and left Potter and the major alone. "You are the Potter Waite who has done something in the flying way, are you not?" asked the major. "A little." "I wish," said the major, enthusiasm fighting in his eyes, "that there were ten thousand of you." "There are people around this town," Potter said, laughingly, "who wish there were one less." The major did not join in Potter's laugh, but regarded the young man shrewdly, appraisingly--with something of sympathy and understanding in his eyes. He got to his feet abruptly. "I should be obliged, Mr. Waite," he said, "if you would play around with me." Presently they were equipped and walking toward the first tee. "Mr. Waite," said the major, "have you ever considered the possibility that this country might be compelled to enter the war?" "Yes," said Potter, and the major saw that darkening of his eyes, that sullen, restless, forbidding expression which came at times over the boy's face. The major laid his hand on Potter's arm. "You have been disappointed in us, is that it? You thought the country would flare into righteous rage over the _Lusitania_ and go knight-erranting? Is that it?" "Didn't you?" Potter countered, a bit sharply.