“I’m a soldier. I didn’t get any present,” he complained.
“You got plenty of presents at the house, Tad,” said his father. “You’ve got candy there, too. Don’t you go bumming off these boys now. You have more Christmas than any of them.”
“But I want a soldier Christmas,” persisted Tad, “and I want my nanny goat back!”
“You’ve got a goat,” scolded Robert, “a blamed nuisance of a goat. You’re getting so you even smell like him.”
“He’s clean,” fumed Tad. “Joe washed him and curried him and the corporal even put hair oil on his whiskers. Can I take Billy in the house, Papa? Can I? I want him to have some candy.”
“No, Tad, no more goats in the house. That’s your mother’s order. Last time,” Lincoln explained to Robert, “Tad drove two of them, hitched to a chair, right through the middle of one of your mother’s social shindigs. Upset a couple of ladies and spilled claret punch on their dresses. Disgraced the whole Lincoln family and busted some good crockery too.”
“It’s cold out here! Billy’s cold.” Tad hung to his father’s coattail but refused to let go the goat. “Billy will catch cold.”
“Private Bullitt,” ordered Lincoln, “will you tie up this goat in a sheltered place? Tad, you come along inside. You’ll get the sniffles and your mother will scold all of us. Corporal, if you must provide escort for this family to their door, line ’em up. We’re ready to march.” Lincoln took a military stance, between two privates, who were very rigid with importance. Tad pulled back till Robert gave him a gentle, brotherly cuff.
“You act more like a baby than a colonel,” he said. “If you want to cry, hand over that sword. You’ll disgrace the army, bawling on the march.”
“Let loose of me!” shrilled Tad, jerking away. Turning he ran pelting back to the circle of tents, dove into one and vanished.