The Draft—and a Few of Those in It

Or, Helpful Hints for the Helpless

GEORGE S. CHAPPELL

BEING of sound mind, and in as perfect a state of physical condition as it is probable I shall attain for some time to come, and being likewise several years on the hither side of the age limit set by General Crowder's most recent ukase, I have just been looking over a sample questionnaire.

I say "looking over" with emphasis. Reading it is out of the question—or questionnaire. Along about the beginning comes an "Important Notice to Registrants and Other Interested Persons, to be read before proceeding further." I tackled it bravely.

I got as far as "By whom Oaths may be Administered" when, sure enough, I burst into an entirely unpremeditated flood of oaths such as I have not equalled since I missed that two foot putt in the finals (handicap) at Oakland last year.

My Aunt Emma dropped her tatting and left the room. I found myself cold and trembling. Imagine my relief when I discovered a note to the paragraph, "when the oath or oaths are administered by any of the persons in classes 2, 3, 4, and 5, there shall be no fee or charge for same."

I READ no further. The escape had been too narrow. If there had been a fee or charge for those oaths I should have had to mortgage the old farm and cut up my Uncle Peleg's grave into building lots!

No, sir! I laid the sheet down and, as well as I could, in my upset condition, I reflected. And then it was borne in upon me that there must be approximately 13,000,000 unfortunates—I use General Crowder's own figures-— in this broad land of ours, who were open to just the sort of torture I had been undergoing. Then and there I resolved that I would act, immediately and at once, to save them from the toils of the document before me. For, I reasoned, that way madness lies. Conceive, if possible, the unholy glee which would ring through the halls of Potsdam when the news was flashed Unter den Limburger that of the second draft, 10,000,000 were found to be hopelessly insane! And such would surely be the case if these poor youngsters, from eighteen to forty-five, were left to themselves with that questionnaire.

THE first person I thought of was my Cousin Egbert. You've heard me speak of him before. He is the kindest person in the world. Somehow, I always think of him when I am in trouble, and never when I am happy or gay, or out for a time.

I had heard indirectly that Egbert had plunged into work with the 4-minute men. That was so like him. Four minutes was always about his limit—like other eggs. However, and be that as it may, the good old boy was the first one I thought of in my distress, for, mark you, Egbert has a perfectly marvelous mind. He has the kind of mind to which things like insurance policies, and steel reports, and this infernal questionnaire are just like so much pie. Egbert was the man, there was no doubt about it.

The long and the short of it was that, true to form, he answered my S. O. S. and popped in smiling the next day. After I had bunglingly laid myself out before him he went into the silences behind his tortoise-shell dimmers and came out with a luminous suggestion.

"We must have an agency," he averred. "Just for our own crowd. Of course, we can't hope to reach the general public, but we may be able to save some of those we know. You can circularize them through the clubs, and I'll answer the questions. May I take this home with me?"

"Do," I murmured, gratefully, "by all means, take it home with you."

THE Thing—our agency—has been a perfectly extraordinary success. Contrary to Egbert's prediction, we seem to have reached practically everyone—not a class or condition is unrepresented on our books. And O! the inside dope I have on our first families! As for Egbert's answers, they are masterpieces. I never suspected his old bean to have a grain of humor in it before, but—well—of course, I can only give you a few examples, but perhaps they will suggest the thoroughness and tact with which my cousin is putting his stuff across. I draw at random from our files.

The first inquiry was from my friend Bertie Van Loon. It is rather pathetic.

"Dear Sir," he writes—and, of course, he hasn't the slightest idea he is writing to me— "I am thirty-seven years old, unmarried and have eight young ladies, now working on the New York stage, who are entirely dependent on me. Can you tell me in which class I properly fall?"

Egbert answered as follows:

"Though I can not say that you fall, properly, in any class, I feel sure that your board will give you a deferred classification. You must be a very busy man and you will note that Rule XVIII, section 3, states that 'an occupation is considered necessary where the available supply of persons competent in the capacity recited in the rule is such that the registrant cannot be replaced in such capacity without direct, substantial material loss and detriment to the adequate and effective operation of the industry.' This plainly covers your case."

The only fear I have about this answer is that Bertie will not be able to understand it. However, the young ladies will probably explain it to him.

Number two is a person entirely unknown to either of us. In fact, I imagine the name is assumed, the fellow is such an arrant coward.

"I have only one reason for claiming exemption," he writes. "The very thought of war fills me with the most dreadful fear. When I imagine myself going over the top I tremble all over and the mere mention of the zero hour causes me to shiver. It must be pre-natal."

I think Egbert let him down rather neatly, for he replied:

"If, as you say, you suffer from no disqualifications other than those mentioned, you will probably be placed in the front row of Class I. However, I might suggest that there is just a possibility of your being let off on the ground of conscientious religious scruples, for it is plain, from your letter, that you are a bom quaker."

THE next one happens to be a very old friend of mine—or perhaps I should say he used to be. I have seen very little of him for the last decade, as his wife is a snippy person who wears a uniform and takes Daniels seriously. The letter is a good example of the intimate little close-ups one gets of a friend's soul when he thinks he is merely confiding in a letter-box. Hearken to his sad case:

"Ten years ago, my wife married me to reform me. She has never done so, but she thinks she has. I should like very much to enlist, get full of vintage champagne and go over the top waving my exemption in one hand and a bottle of Gordon gin in the other. But I can't escape from my wife. What can I do?"

It was characteristic of Egbert's keen mind that he does not waste sympathy on a hopeless case. "I am afraid there is very little help for you," he says. "Your initial mistake was your marriage. For, when you reach Question 12, series I 'Are you now confined in prison, either (a) serving sentence or (b) awaiting trial, or (c) are you confined in a reformatory or correctional institution?' you will be forced, under oath, to answer 'Yes' on all counts."

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Another instance,—and I won't bore you with any more. "I am a medical student and, as such, should undoubtedly be placed in Class V. Living as I do in the small village of Wheelerville, Ill., four hundred miles from Chicago, I have had to follow my study of surgery by the correspondence method. I have no .dependents; my parents, my wife and my two children all having died following operations. Yours, for the Fourth Liberty Loan, etc., etc.

"W. C. L-N."

It was a splendid letter. There was such a fine, earnest spirit about it. But my cousin gave it an odd twist.

"You are mistaken about Class V," he answered. "You mean Class I. Surgeons like yourself are very much needed at the front,—the German front. You may be sure that unlimited opportunities will be afforded you to operate very freely, and that your medical education will not suffer."

I'll bet a doughnut that boy was proud when he read Egbert's letter.

AND so it goes, day after day,—with the questions pouring in and the answers pouring out, in a clear limpid stream. And even you, Reader, may have your perplexities in regard to your classification. If you have, why not write them out and send them in ? Heavens! perhaps you have done so already—perhaps you are actually that medical student and are even now reading about yourself in Vanity Fair! But, no! Wheelerville is a long way off— and that poor medical student, poor wretch, probably still thinks of Vanity Fair as something written by a person named Thackeray!