“Not much I won’t!” retorted Jimmie. “These are for General McClellan. They aren’t for anyone else.”
“I am General McClellan’s acting secretary,” the officer announced harshly, his dignity rasped by a laugh from fellow officers lounging near by.
The spectacle of a small boy in a big uniform, caked with dust and horse-foam, defying the pompous acting secretary was one of mild joy to everyone.
“I am General McClellan’s acting secretary,” repeated the officer impatiently. “I will take—”
“I wouldn’t care if you was his maiden aunt,” declared Jimmie stoutly. “Dad told me to give a paper to General McClellan himself. He didn’t say anything about giving it to anyone else—even if the someone else happened to be wearing seven diff’rent kinds of gold lace. And what Dad tells me to do goes. Where’s General McClellan?”
“Who’s ‘Dad,’ sonny?” laughed a colonel who was sprawling in the sun on the steps.
“He’s my s’perior off’cer,” returned Jimmie. “And he told me to—”
“Here!” snorted the secretary. “If you’ve got any papers, you little ragamuffin, give them to me. If you haven’t, be off, or I’ll take my riding-switch to you. I—”
“Look!” gasped Jimmie melodramatically, pointing a trembling, stubby forefinger over the secretary’s shoulder.
The secretary involuntarily turned. Jimmie on the instant darted past him through the door and into the hallway beyond.