They brought him up in a few minutes, a pathetic, disheveled sight, tear-stained, dragging his feet, still kicking at the shins of the men who restrained him. His military cap was over one eye, his belt half off, the toy sword dragging.
“Fetch him here!” sternly ordered the President of the United States.
Tad stumbled close, held tight by the elbows by two privates. His chin was shaking, sobs shook him.
“Oh, Papa—Oh, Papa—” he gasped, trying to fling himself at the tall man with the suddenly grim and forbidding face.
But Lincoln was unrelenting. “Thomas Lincoln! Give me that sword!” he ordered in a terrible voice.
Trembling Tad jerked the sword loose, handed it over.
“Present the hilt, in proper military order!” snapped his father.
Tad reversed the sword, his hand shaking so that almost it fell to the ground.
“Yes, sir!” His voice was very thin and small.
Solemnly Lincoln broke the sword over his knee, tossed it to one side.