“You never would! You couldn’t—with honor!” explained Robert. “But it would be a mighty tough decision, sir. Is that,” he asked sharply, “why you won’t let me go into the Army? For fear I might be captured and held as a hostage to force some concessions out of you? I want to tell you, sir, that if I can get into the Army—and no matter how I’m treated there or what happens to me, I’ll be a United States soldier, Mr. Lincoln—you can forget that I ever was your son.”
“Very nobly said, son,” Lincoln patted his shoulder. “I’ll try to abide by your decision if the occasion ever arises. But Tad is my son. A little helpless boy. A boy I’m mighty fond of, and they know it!”
“If I may speak plainly again, sir,” said Robert, “he needs his breeches tanned. And you are the one who ought to do it.”
“He couldn’t have gone far,” fretted Lincoln. “It’s beginning to snow again.” He moved across the yard, his escort keeping rigidly in formation on either side. “Tad!” he shouted. “You, Tad—come back here!”
“He wanted to be a soldier, Mr. President,” put in one of the soldiers. “Tad was bound he was a soldier.”
“All my boys,” said Lincoln, “wanting to be soldiers!”
There was a shout presently from beyond the fenced in confines of the yard. Men started running.
“They’ve seen him,” cried Robert relieved. “The ornery little devil!” He began to run himself, and Lincoln trotted too, almost outstripping his guards.
“There he is!” exclaimed a soldier. “Up on that scaffolding again!”
“They’re going after him. They’ll get him down.” Lincoln almost forgot to breathe. The little figure looked so small against the loom of that great half-finished monument—a tiny, struggling shape swarmed over by half a dozen men in blue who clung precariously to the spidery trestles, caught him and passed him down slowly, kicking and fighting, from one to another.