“Lemme go!” he grunted. “Dad says the whole army’s fate depends on—”
“Shall I have him turned over to the provost-marshal, sir?” obsequiously queried the secretary, “or—”
“Wait!”
It was “Fighting Joe” Hooker who, choking back his helpless laughter, shouted the order.
The secretary, his question half-uttered, shut his mouth and stood at attention. The sentinel paused with uplifted fist poised in the act of seeking vengeance for the jaw-blow that had made him see stars and had loosened two of his best teeth.
Even McClellan turned from the turmoil to stare in surprise at his subordinate general.
“Wait!” repeated Hooker. “By your leave, General McClellan?”
He glanced at his chief for permission to take over the situation. McClellan nodded.
“I think, general,” went on Hooker, “with your consent, we can do worse than to wait for a minute or so. I don’t at all understand what any of this means. But one or two things lead me to think it may be worth a question or two. It isn’t an every-day occurrence for a boy in Federal uniform trousers to ride up on a Confederate army horse and fight his way into the commanding general’s presence, just for the sake of handing that commanding general a bunch of soiled waste paper. May I suggest, general, that we let the boy wait here an instant while we glance at the paper?”
He stooped and picked up the crumpled sheet, handling its unclean outer side gingerly as he proceeded to unfold it. Then he glanced at the written words. The others standing at gaze, McClellan vexedly chewing his mustache.