“Dad was. And the Confed, of course.”
“What Confederate?” asked the exasperated general.
“The one I left Dad thrashing. The one who said we were his prisoners. Dad licked him long before this.”
“Hold on, sonny,” intervened Hooker, forestalling a movement of vexed bewilderment on McClellan’s part. “Let’s get this straight. Just answer my questions as simply as you can.”
In a dozen well-put queries Hooker got from the boy the whole story, beginning with the runaway and ending with Jimmie’s arrival at headquarters.
McClellan’s face lost its look of impatience as he listened; and it lighted into keen interest.
“This Dad of yours must be a paladin of valor, besides having a quick, cool brain of his own,” he commented as Jimmie finished. “His country owes him an unpayable debt for sending this dispatch to me so promptly. It is more important than I could make you understand. By the way, you haven’t told us his name?”
“His name? Dad’s? Why, he’s Brevet-Major James Dadd. I thought I told you that.”
The two generals exchanged a quick glance that was quite lost on Jimmie.
“James Dadd!” exclaimed McClellan.