“General Patrick went North yesterday!”
“How long will he remain?”
“Till to-morrow night.”
Match-making was becoming a doubtful experiment. “Has everybody gone North?” I dubiously inquired.
The orderly suggested “The General’s adjutant, Captain Beckwith is here.”
“Oh, indeed, I don’t know him except by sight; a young man and good-looking. If only he wasn’t. Wonder what General Grant would say if he were asked!” But a consideration of the cares of that overworked public servant saved him.
At last, in desperation, I said, “Ask the Adjutant if he will please step here for a moment,” inwardly adding “If we do not perish with cold in this attempt, we might hereafter make our headquarters at the North Pole!”
Captain Beckwith came out of the office and politely waited my request. A poor attempt at indifference was not helped by my hesitating words—“Captain, I—er—I wish to speak to you privately. Is your office occupied?”
He replied gravely and politely, “There are officers now in my tent.”
“Well then, will you please step into the ambulance, as it is necessary to have your advice and assistance.”