After them through the shadowy tree-aisles, gray with smoke-clouds, rushed their Northern pursuers.
Dad gripped the fast-following Jimmie by the shoulder, bringing the indignant youngster to a very sudden and fruitlessly wriggling halt.
“Leggo!” snapped Jimmie, his war-lust at full flood. “Leggo, you old fool! They’re needing me out in front there; can’t you see—”
“They’re needing you—and themselves a lot more right here!” panted Dad, his voice hoarse and spent with the battle. “Sound the recall!”
“What?” yelled Jimmie in the unbelieving tone of a soldier who is ordered to retreat even before the first volley has been fired.
“Sound the recall!” repeated Dad. “Sound it, quick! My voice is gone, and they’re plumb crazy! They’re liable to run into an ambuscade beyond there and lose all we’ve gained. Sound the recall!”
“The recall,” sneered Jimmie insolently as he strove in vain to tug free from the hand on his shoulder, “is the one piece of war-music I’ve never took the trouble to learn, nor wanted to, neither.”
“Jimmie Brinton,” declaimed Dad in a terribly solemn and awe-compelling rumble, “I’ve never laid hand to you in my life, and I hoped I’d never have to. But unless you sound the recall, and sound it loud enough to bring those lunatics back here on the double—why, I’m going to take you over my knee right here and now and—”
“Dad!” screamed Jimmie, the smoke-mists gouged out of his eyes and his gaze for the first time resting on the stern, loving old face above him.
“Dad!” he repeated, his short arms clasping the veteran convulsively about the waist. “Oh, Dad, it’s—it’s—you!”