McClellan, into whose hand Jimmie had thrust the crumpled and far from clean bunch of paper, let the document drop to the floor.
“Wait!” yelled the boy in despair. “A lot depends on it. Dad—”
“The brat is crazy,” declared the secretary. “He came to the house here just now and said he was a—”
“Dad told me,” squealed Jimmie, clinging to the door-jamb and hanging on for dear life as the sentinel sought to yank him free, “that I must—”
“Shut up!” exhorted the sentry. “And let go there!”
“A thousand apologies, sir,” went on the secretary to McClellan, “for my allowing this intrusion upon your conference. It was not my fault, nor”—generously—“was it this sentinel’s. I saw the boy assault him. He—”
“General McClellan!” howled Jimmie. “Pick up that paper and read it! Dad says it—”
“The boy,” babbled on the secretary to all concerned, “was riding a horse with a ‘C. S. A.’ cavalry saddle. He—”
“Pick it up and read it!” wailed Jimmie again, feeling his hold on the door-jamb slacken under the mighty yanking of the sentinel.
The soldier loosened one tugging hand from Jimmie’s shoulder long enough to administer a sound cuff on the lad’s ear. Jimmie retaliated this time by flinging his head back sharply and with the crown of it catching the sentry a grievous whack on the chin.