“I—I don’t understand, Mr. President,” I blurted out; and neither I did.
“James Dadd,” he says, with another of those smiles that makes a body’s heart go all warm, “James Dadd was a mistake. I’ve rectified it. He is James Brinton, henceforward and always. Tell him never to forget that. For it’s the way his name has been altered on the army lists.”
He kind of paused for a second, then he said:
“And, Mrs. Sessions, James Brinton is the name on a document I signed last night. I’ve about decided that Brinton isn’t really worthy to be a brevet-major any more after the way he behaved in the Antietam campaign. So, to punish him, I’ve just signed a commission making him a brigadier-general instead.”
I don’t know, Jim, if it was then, or a while earlier, that I began crying. I guess it was then. I sat sopping my eyes and trying to say grand, eloquent things. But I could hear myself just saying: “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” all kind of sobby, over and over again, like a numb wit.
But he seemed to understand. I guess he always understands. That’s what makes him different. He got up and took my hand again, and he said:
“Tell him next time you write. And tell him, if he’s well enough, I want him to come to the White House next Tuesday afternoon. I want you to come, too, ma’am. And—don’t forget to tell him to bring Battle Jimmie along. I want to thank him, too.
“And he and my boy, Tad, can get into mischief together while we old folks are gabbling.”
He took his hat off of the table and he started for the door. When he got to the threshold he turned around and he said:
“A man who has never stumbled is to be envied, Mrs. Sessions. But a man who has stumbled and then fought his way back again, strong and firm, to his feet, is the sort whose hands real men like to shake. Tell him that, too, ma’am, when you write. I guess he’ll know what I’m driving at.”