The dimmer light half-blinded the boy, coming as he did from the glare of the street. But he dared not pause. Vaguely, half-way down the long hallway, he saw a sentinel posted in front of one of several closed doors.
Jimmie needed no further directions. He made for that door. And the sentinel, who had beheld the scene on the porch, made for Jimmie.
The boy halted and attempted to dodge. Out went the sentry’s arms to seize him. And, with a sudden lunge forward, crash went Jimmie’s bullet-head into the pit of the soldier’s stomach.
The sentinel doubled up in pain. But as he did so he managed to seize the boy by the coat-collar.
Wriggling eel-like from the too loose garment, Jimmie leaped at the closed door, flung it open, rushed into the room beyond and slammed the door shut again behind him.
Two men were talking earnestly in an embrasure by a window.
One of them Jimmie recognized at once as General Hooker whom Dad had pointed out to him a few days earlier. The shorter and stockier man he also recognized from a hundred photographs he had seen.
Plunging one hand into his shirt-bosom, and pulling forth the precious wad of paper, Battle Jimmie raised the other in salute.
“General McClellan,” he said, “Dad told me to give you this. He says a whole lot depends on it. Read it. It’s more interesting, maybe, than it sounds. Read it!”