"I don't know, sir," he said. "We had something like this at home awhile ago. We came near missing out on it, too. If you will excuse me!"
He leaned over and held the first page near the heat of the candle. On the instant the sheet was covered with fine writing.
The General gave a muttered exclamation and leaned back in his chair. "What next?" he demanded.
"That's about all," said Porky. "Bogardus is in hospital by now, I suppose, and I'm sorry it took me so long. I certainly did seem to miss him all around. I'm real sorry, sir. Next time you give me anything to do, I will try to do better."
"That would be impossible," said the General. "Just a moment, my boy, while I make a note or two, and then you can be relieved from all duty for forty-eight hours. You have earned a rest. We will have to go through these papers and plans carefully before we can decide anything for your future reference. Just sit there while I write."
He turned to his desk and, pulling a sheet of paper toward him, commenced covering it with his strong, distinctive handwriting. Porky, in the big chair opposite, watched him for a little, then he rested his head on his hand and commenced to think of all the events of the long, gruelling, wearisome day.
And presently he did not think at all; just listened to the steady scratch, scratch, scratch of the General's pen and the steady tramp, tramp, tramp of the Colonel as he softly paced up and down the length of the somber room. And presently that sound died away. Porky was asleep.
Beany, left to himself in the hall, went cautiously and with noiseless touch over every portion of the oak paneling. He could not find a joint or crack that looked like a secret door or hidden entrance. Then he examined the floor. It too appeared solid. But Beany had one of his hunches. It looked solid but he felt that it wasn't solid. The man he had seen was not a ghost. He was certainly too solid to disappear into thin air. He had come from somewhere, and he had gone somewhere. Benny made up his mind that he would find out if it took all night. He stood thinking. Then he whistled in an offhand manner, and walked loudly down the hall to the turn. Round the turn he went, until well out of sight. Then Beany tried a trick of his boyhood days. He knew from experience that any one watching for any one else always fixes his eyes about where they expect to see the face appear, never lower than that.
So Beany, dropping flat on the floor, worked his way back to the corner, flattened himself out to his flattest, and with face against the tiles waited patiently, his eyes fixed on the distant doorway. The hallway was lighted with a small and feeble kerosene lamp set high on a bracket. It gave a dim light, but Beany could see the door distinctly and the high wainscot on either side.
He stared at it steadily—so steadily and so long that when at last a narrow panel in the woodwork slid noiselessly over and a face looked out into the hall, Beany did not start; he did not feel surprised. All he was conscious of was a sort of triumph. He wanted to sing out for his own benefit, "I told you so."