“As you wish,” said the aid pleasantly. “The carriage is—”
“Will you mind, sir,” interposed Dad, “if we march instead? Once I left the army—on foot. I would like to go on foot to a reward I don’t deserve. A silly fancy, maybe. But I’ve looked forward to it a long, long time. Especially since I was sick. March, Jimmie!”
Word had passed around as to the trio’s identity. A little crowd had gathered. From the onlookers, as Dad and Battle Jimmie fell into step, went up a cheer.
The two saluted, squared their shoulders, and set forth on their march of triumph, Emp trotting proudly ahead of them in all the glory of his patriotic ribbon and scoured coat.
And so did Dad Brinton come to his own.
THE END