“But why, man, why? Surely you knew that commissioned officers with military experience were at a premium when the Civil War began, and that they were certain of promotion. Look at the men in the army who have had war experience and how they have risen. Dozens of them.”
“I enlisted under an assumed name,” said Dad slowly and forcing each word from his whitened lips, “because I did not believe I would be accepted under my own name.”
“But why? With a war record—By the way, if it is a fair question, what is your name?”
“My name,” said Dad, bidding farewell to hope, “is James Brinton.”
“Brinton?” repeated Hooker reflectively. “Brinton?”
He was evidently racking his brain. And presently he found what he sought. For he glanced up, wide-eyed.
“Not—not the Brinton who—”
“Who was kicked out of the army for drunkenness and for grossly insulting the general commanding,” supplemented Dad, his voice dead as though he were reciting some entirely impersonal fact.
“I remember,” said Hooker briefly.
Then fell a pause. The two men were eying each other. Hooker’s face a mask; Dad’s white and wretched. It was Dad who broke the silence.