“Emp,” said Jimmie in a tone of laboriously patient explanation as to a stupid pupil—“Emp is my dog. That isn’t all his name; it’s just the short of it. Dad’s my grandfather. He’s a brevet-major. I’m Jim Brinton.”
“Brinton?” queried McClellan, repeating his own middle name.
“The soldiers call me ‘Battle Jimmie,’” explained the lad.
“Battle Jimmie!” cried Hooker. “So you’re the youngster who—”
“Yes, sir. I’m that one. Shall I go on about the paper?”
“Dad read it, and he got all het up over it. And he said it must get here right away. That everything depended on it. And that must be so, ’cause Dad knows.”
“So he sent you here with it?” asked McClellan. “If he is an officer in the army here, it would have saved time and explanation if he had brought it here himself.”
“How could he?” flared Jimmie instantly aflame at the implied slur on his idol. “How could he? Tell me that. He couldn’t stop fighting, could he?”
“Fighting? No skirmish on the Sharpesburg road has been reported here. What troops were engaged? Do you know?”