Van Loan was a malefactor of great wealth. His name was a hissing upon the lips of soap-box orators. None of his malefactions, to be sure, had ever yet been uncovered, nor were any of the strident-voiced orators even distantly acquainted with him, but his wealth was an established fact of such enormity that in the public eye he was suspect. “I’m all in,” the disconsolate mammoth mumbled, and then made known his sorrow. “Too fat to get in the army; too soft morally to get in the Y. M. C. A. I didn’t know how rotten I am. I can’t carry a gun for my country; I’m not good enough to lug soup to the boys who do. And, meanwhile, the Huns are pressing forward.” Van Loan eyed him shrewdly. “Do you feel it as badly as all that?” Dalrymple nodded. “I don’t want to be a hero. Who ever heard of a hero with a waistband like mine? No; I’d just like to help our lads grin and bear it, and be a big, cheerful fat brother to them.” Without a word Mr. Van Loan took a card from his pocket and wrote a few lines thereon. “Take that down to the Y and tell them to send you on the next ship.” He handed Dimples the card, whereupon the giant stared at him. “D—d’you know that outfit?” “_Know_ it?” Van Loan smiled. “I’m the fellow who’s raising the money for them. They’ve darn near broken me, but—it’s worth it.” With a gurgling shout Dimples wrung the malefactor’s hand; then he bolted for the nearest taxi-stand and squeezed himself through a cab door. Ten minutes later he entered the boardroom at the Y. M. C. A. and flung Van Loan’s card upon the table. “Read that!” he told the astonished occupants. The “judge” read and passed the card along. “Where do I go from here?” Dimples demanded, in a voice of triumph. “Why”—the “judge” cleared his throat—“to your tailor’s for a uniform, I should say.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER III “_One Man to Every Ten!_” Late the following afternoon, as the judicial member of the Y examiners was leaving the building, his path was barred by a huge, rotund figure in khaki which rose from a bench in the hall. It was Dalrymple. “I’ve been blocking traffic here for an hour,” the giant explained. “Look at me! It’s the biggest uniform in New York, and it was made in the shortest time.” Noting the effect his appearance created, he went on, “I suppose I do look funny, but—there’s nothing funny to me about it.” The elder man’s face grew serious. “I’m beginning to believe you’ll make good, Dalrymple. I hope so, for your sake and for the sake of the Association. If you don’t, we’ll have to order you back.” “I’ll take that chance. You gentlemen think I’m unfit to wear these clothes and—maybe I was yesterday, or even this morning. But when I saw myself in this uniform I took stock and cleaned house. I got all my bad habits together and laid them away in moth-balls for the duration of the war.”