“As you order, captain!”
He started off across lots.
He was not a small boy going on an errand. He was a well-trained and extremely weary and unconsciously pathetic little soldier who had seen death ride down the ranks of drawn battle. His reaction had, boylike, taken the form of mischievous perverseness.
He was very tired. He made his short legs carry him on and on, though he wanted to drop; while his eyes swept every thicket for possible Confederate stragglers or skirmishers along his way.
As he reached the main road running back to the town and the distant Federal lines, he saw a movement in the sumac-bushes, now glittering with the fire of approaching autumn.
What was it? He couldn’t afford to get shot or captured now. He had to bring a nurse. Dad had told him to.
Jimmie instantly dropped to the ground and lay without movement.
He could almost see the stern, quiet, deadly face of the foeman who must be hidden there in that nearest bush, perhaps already aware of him and taking his aim—perhaps taking aim right at his breast as he lay there so quietly. But he did not move. He waited.
Then the sumac-bushes parted, and out from between the roots peered the furry, eager face of a dog; impudent, inquiring, with his ragged left ear flapping gayly over his eyes while he stared indignantly at the silent figure in the roadside ditch.
That eye seemed to be volubly remarking: