The other man shook his head.
"None to speak of. We were stopped several times of course, but each time your pass let us through without delay—until we met Dudley. And now I'm worried, Colonel," he said frankly, while his eyes tried to tell the other all that he feared without putting it in words, "worried on your account. It's easy to see that the man has a grudge against you—"
"Yes, I'm afraid he has," was the thoughtful reply. "But really, Cary, you mustn't try to carry any more burdens than your own, just now. I know what you mean and what, I daresay, you'd be only too willing to do, but I can't permit it."
They were interrupted by the spectacle of Virgie standing before them with anxiously furrowed brow, a paper bag in one hand and three spoons clutched in the other.
"But Colonel Morrison," she was saying in tragic tones, "there isn't a drop of milk."
"Milk!" he cried in mock despair. "Well, dash my buttons if I didn't forget to order a cow."
"Oh, I know what to do," cried the child. Dropping her supplies and utensils she ran to the wall and climbed up.
"Hey, there, you" commanded the small general with an imperious gesture to the assembled troopers. "One of you men ride right over to camp and bring us back some milk—an' butter."
At this abrupt demand of so small a rebel on the commissary of the United States a roar of laughter went up from the troopers, though some of them had the grace to salute and so relieve the child of embarrassment.
"Virgie! Virgie!" called her father, scandalized.