“Don’t mention it, my lad,” returned the general, choking back a guffaw at the ludicrous contrast between face and voice. “And now, if your grandfather thinks well of it, you can go forward. Take your orders from him.”
Dad’s eyes were wide with sudden distress.
He knew what type of work was likely to be afoot beyond the hill-crest. He knew, too, that where the lead should rain thickest there would this irrepressible grandson of his be found. Once already, that day, the boy had escaped death almost miraculously.
By the law of chance he could scarce count on the intervention of a second miracle in his behalf.
“Jimmie!” he said. “I’ve missed you so, lad. And the world’s been so empty without my chum. It’s hard to risk a longer parting, now that we’ve just had the blind, unbelievable luck to meet again.”
Jimmie sighed, thrust the drum behind him, dutifully saluted, and fell into step alongside his grandfather’s horse with chin stiffly set.
Dad leaned down sideways in the saddle and smote him on the shoulder.
“It takes a good soldier to go willingly into action. But it takes a blamed-sight better soldier to stay out of the action where his spirit is waiting for him to join it. Go ahead, lad! Forward! Do your own work your own way. I’ve no right to stay you.”
The boy leaped forward, gripped Dad’s hand in an ecstatic instant’s pressure, then scuttled off up the hill ahead of the more slowly advancing staff.
And from every hurrying regiment that he outdistanced rose a laughing cheer for Battle Jimmie. And so he went on toward the hill-crest, and beyond it, where crouched the unknown.