II
MEANS TO AN END
The nightingale flew away, and time flew also.
—Hans Andersen.
Charlemagne got his appointment. In a very commonplace way, after all, like most other boys; in spite of his long name and his longer list of qualifications. Some relative knew the Congressman of the district, had done business with him in the pre-official days, and in one of the intervals of home rest after Washington fatigues, young Kindred was taken over to the dignitary's whereabouts, and presented as one who was eager to serve his country in another line. There was nothing heroic about the whole proceeding, and the man was not an ideal Congressman; but he answered the purpose.
The interview would have made a fine subject for a picture. The boy, on his dignity every inch of him, making believe that he did not care a continental about the matter; but too unskilled in dissembling to prove the fact, and keep down the quick flashes of eye and flushes of cheek. The introducer, the childless uncle to whom his sister's son was the one boy of all the world. Opposite them the old Congressman, with chair at an uncertain angle and hat ditto; tilting back in the cool shady porch, and listening with a scarce hid smile to the tale of Charlemagne's attainments.
"Has he room in his head for anything more?" he demanded, when Mr. Thorn paused. "He'll want a little, over there."
"I am ready to learn all they teach, sir!" said young Magnus, firing up. "You think I don't know anything now—and maybe I don't."
"Maybe—" said the Congressman drily. "How about the outside of your head? You'll get it rough and ready, at West Point."
"I've got hands!" said Magnus with another flush.
"True," said the Honourable Miles Ironwood. "Well, take good care of them."
"And I have understood," put in Mr. Thorn, "that hazing is quite stamped out at West Point."