In the mean time Jimmie had a chance to recall that he himself was a very tired, very ill-treated, very sore and dusty and thirsty and battered little boy.
Also, that Dad was far away from him and so was Emp. And he was among strangers who hadn’t seemed especially glad to see him and who surely had treated him with more roughness than was absolutely needful.
Jimmie began to feel excessively sorry for himself. In fact, he was suddenly aware of a most unmanly and overweening desire to cry.
He was heartily ashamed of such a babyish impulse. He was a man of fifteen. But a very great many things had happened to him that day, and the day was not yet over.
He choked back the big lump in his throat and tried to square his shoulders and throw back his chest, no easy feat when the great, hulking sentinel’s grip was still on his shirt-collar, almost choking him. Jimmie found himself wondering just how soon he could hope to be big enough and strong enough to lick a man of—well, of that sentinel’s size!
Presently the wondering, whispered colloquy between the two generals in the window embrasure ended. McClellan and Hooker came back toward the center of the room.
McClellan seated himself at the table there, and with a word dismissed the sentry, who, releasing Jimmie, departed. The secretary, at a gesture from the general, followed the soldier, shutting the door behind him.
“Come here, my boy,” said McClellan kindly.
Jimmie advanced. He felt no special awe for this great little man. All he wanted was to complete his mission, get back to Dad’s tent, and rest for a long, long while.
He wondered when Dad would return, and he resolved to learn from him every minutest detail of the duel. That Dad would worst his opponent Jimmie had not the faintest doubt.