A veteran of wild Virginia fox-hunts, the rough going was as nothing to him. Hill, plowed field, and gully were traversed as easily as level sward.
The rider’s weight was a bagatelle, but the rider’s behavior was a gross affront.
Jimmie, in his earlier and runaway ride of the day, had not been too excited to note his general direction—a trait taught him by Dad years before in their rambles through the Ohio forests beyond Ideala.
And the habit served him well to-day, for he was able with no difficulty to follow his former route on the return journey.
The black charger was perfectly amenable to the reins’ guidance, and his gait was as easy as a hobby-horse’s.
Presently the few spires of Frederick came into view; then the house roofs. Topping another rise, Jimmie found he was a scant fifty feet from the Frederick road.
For safer and smoother travel he guided his horse to it, the black clearing a low wall and ditch without breaking his smooth stride.
Down the Frederick pike the headlong ride continued. At a turn of the road two Union sentinels slung their guns forward and demanded the pass-word. Jimmie had reached the Federal outposts.
The black sped between the two forward-pressing sentries, and Jimmie yelled:
“Courier! Dispatches for General McClellan!”