And as he asked he pointed toward the courier’s left hip. Dad glanced down, following the direction of the inquiring gesture.
Thrust through his belt was the naked sword Mrs. Sessions had given him. Vaguely he remembered placing it there for safe keeping and to have it out of his way, as he had ridden on after the four fleeing guerrillas had galloped up the by-way. In the night’s stirring perils and need for eternal watchfulness he had forgotten it.
Now, blushing like a schoolboy—his keen soldier-sense horrified by so glaring an error in his equipment—more chagrined at the unpardonable lapse than had he been caught going barefoot to a Presidential review—shame swallowed his former resentment.
“I—I apologize, sir,” he said contritely, “for appearing in your presence wearing a commissioned officer’s sword.”
“Where did you happen on it?”
“I lost my revolver. The sword was—was given me for self-defense at a house where I hid when guerrillas were after me. I used it in getting away again; then stuck it in my belt in case I should be attacked in close quarters at some time during the night.”
“You need not apologize to me or to anyone,” said Hooker slowly, “from this time on, for wearing a commissioned officer’s sword. Your commission as first lieutenant of infantry will be signed by President Lincoln as soon as my next courier goes to him. In the meantime you are an acting-lieutenant.
“Keep the sword. I wish all newly commissioned officers had as good a right to one as you have just shown yourself to possess.”
Dad’s head swam. He tried to stammer out halting phrases of gratitude. Hooker cut him short with another brusk laugh.
“If we played a trick and you were chosen as the catspaw,” said he, “you’ll at least bear witness that I know how to reward a catspaw whose claws are as alert as yours. Go across to the staff mess and get some breakfast. Then take a few hours of sleep. You look as if you could make use of it.”