“Mighty pretty,” approved his father, “but you’re getting paint on your uniform jacket. Your mama will have something to say about that.”
“She’ll have a duck fit,” stated Tad disrespectfully; then his voice sank to a whimper. “Billy’s pretty but he’s not as pretty as a nanny goat, Papa. I want my nanny goat back.” He began to cry thinly, and the corporal looked anxious.
“I sure wish we could get his nanny goat back, Mr. President. That paint will dry by morning, sir. We’ll tie Billy out where he can’t rub it off on anything. You, Bullitt and Gibson, escort the President and young Mr. Lincoln back to the house, and lemme see them rifles first. Half the time,” he explained unhappily, “they ain’t got no load ready and a man might as well carry a broomstick. All right. About face, March!”
Tad clung to his father’s hand and Lincoln felt his palm sticky with undried paint. Behind them the goat blatted forlornly.
“He wants me,” mourned Tad. “I feed him biscuits and all the boys have got is hardtack.”
“Maybe we can find some biscuits,” suggested Lincoln. “Mr. Bullitt and Mr. Gibson can carry them back to him. Come along in, boys, and report back to your corporal that I’m much obliged for everything.”
He had never set foot in the White House kitchen. Now Abraham Lincoln walked timidly there as though he were an intruder who might be ordered out indignantly at any moment.
The long room, still odorous with baking bread and roasting meat, was warm, the huge ranges clinking as they cooled, water dripping from the spout of a pump. The cooks’ white aprons and caps hung from pegs on the wall and one long table was covered with trays spread over with white cloths. Lincoln lifted a corner of a covering. Beneath was a great array of small colored cakes obviously baked for the Christmas party.
“Have one, boys.” He took a pink dainty himself and bit into it. “Pretty good.”
Tad wolfed down two and the privates nervously accepted one each.