Jimmie drew himself up to the dread height of his full four foot seven and stalked by, meekly followed by Napoleon Peter Bub Bonaparte Brinton Dog, Esq., while the sentry scoffed after the twain:
“He’s a well-bred trick, all right; he’s got more kinds o’ breedin’ in him than all the dogs I ever see. Them forepaws look to me like South Boston bull, but I guess his second toe-nail on his lift hind foot is St. Bernard.”
Across the camp trailed a couple of Q. M. wagons drawn by tired mules, which had come pounding down the turnpike laden with nurses. The lieutenant-surgeon in charge cantered beside them on a bay mare. Running up to him, Jimmie bawled out in a commanding treble:
“Halt! Beg pardon, loot’nant, but—”
“Well, well, well, well, well!” snapped the surgeon, drawing rein sharply. “What is it? What is it? What is it? What is it?”
“Jimminy crickets! Zif once saying it wouldn’t be enough!” complained Jimmie, down inside himself; while aloud he begged, quickly:
“Captain James Dadd sent me for a nurse for an awful dangerous wounded man he’s looking after down there in the cottage off to the right from the road.”
“Captain Dadd, eh? But who’re you?”
“Battle Jimmie, sir.”
“Oh, yes! Sure! I’ve heard of you. All right. I’ll detail—”