“What the dickens are you doing there? Trying to fool a poor dog that ain’t either Johnnie Reb or Yank; but just a plain, ornery, scared mongrel, boy’s dog as can hunt you out gophers?”
At least, that’s what Jimmie would have sworn the forlorn mongrel said as he peered out from the sumacs.
“Howdy, dog? Where y’ going?” Jimmie inquired, sitting up.
The dog himself said nothing but “Y-e-e-e-e-e-h.” But his tail, going flippety-flip, flippety-flip against the brush, announced its entire friendliness.
The answer was much the same as before, while the dog looked still more friendly and whined a little. He cocked his ears up over his head.
“Think you’re Napoleon Bonaparte, don’t you, with your cocked hat made out of ears? All right; that’s your name, then—let’s see?—Emperor Napoleon Peter Bub Bonaparte Brinton Dog, Esquire. I give you that name all for your own. Got a master? Well, come on then. Gotta hurry. Come on, boy!” He whistled.
And down the road started the boy afresh, cheered by companionship. And the dog, which seemed to take it for granted that he had a new owner, followed.
As they drew up to the line of sentries about the hospital bivouac, panting with haste, a sentry stopped them, mumbling: “Wh’ go th’r’?”
“Aw—y’ know me!” snapped Jimmie. “Lemme by. I’m in a hurry.”
“Sure I know you,” grinned the sentry. “You’re Gen’ral McClellan. But who’s that four-footed gent with you? He must be a gen’ral, too—ain’t he? I notice he’s a little gray—all of him as ain’t brown or red or yaller or just plain dirt-colored.”