“But son,” protested his mother, “aren’t you going to play with all your pretty toys? Look—this little cannon. It shoots!”
“Yeh—shoots a cork!” Tad dismissed the weapon indifferently, “A ole Rebel would sure laugh if you shot him with that. Papa, I want a real gun. One with bullets in it.”
“My Heaven, Tad, you’re too little to have a gun,” declared Mary.
“If I had a gun I could ride with Papa and perteck him,” argued Tad. “Then nobody would dare shoot holes in his hat.”
Lincoln caught the startled look on Mary’s face, got his son hastily by the elbow. “Come along, Tad. Go show off your finery. And I’ve got work to do.” He hustled the boy down the hall. “Who told you somebody shot a hole in my hat?” he demanded, when they were out of earshot.
Tad grinned. “Oh, I get information,” he said blandly, “but if I had been along with a good ole gun nobody would have dared do it.”
“Don’t mention it again in front of your mother, you hear?” Lincoln seldom spoke sharply to the boy and Tad looked scared briefly.
“No, sir—no, sir, I won’t,” he stammered, his palate tripping him again.
“Mind now! And get along with you!” His father gave him a little shove, as he entered the office door.
Even on a holiday he was not free from intrusion, of being faced with the woeful problems of the people. A lad of about seventeen, in the faded uniform of a private, was standing, twisting thin hands together, his face scared and anxious.