"Ah, Hawthorne," said my grandsire, "I know what it is—I knew it was coming—I wrote Joe Wheeler—"
"I thought you had something to do with it," said the Major, "and I shall abide by your decision, my General," he added softly.
"McKinley has appointed you Brigadier-General," went on my grandsire quietly. "The First Tennessee will be in your brigade. I can't talk of it, Hawthorne—I want to go to the Philippines with you so bad, and give the damned Yankees—ah, pardon—pardon me—I mean the damned Spaniards another good drubbing!"
There was a burst of laughter from us all. My grandsire sat down confused.
"It is as you said," Major Hawthorne replied, "and I am going to do as you say, General. I have taken your orders in Virginia too often to refuse now."
"Hawthorne, I envy you; by gad, I envy you," said the old man.
"General, do you know that I never was so happy before? I have so wanted to fight under the old flag. Jack," he turned to me, his face smiling, "Jack, I have come to see you for this purpose—I want you on my staff—I know the training you have had, I know the stuff that is in you. I want you, my boy. I've ridden ten miles to-night to tell you."
"Tut—tut—Hawthorne—nonsense!" broke in the General. "Don't start out making breaks like that. Jack is a good boy, but he is not a fighter—now, there's Braxton Bragg—"
"My grandfather is doubtless right, General Hawthorne," I said quietly. "I thank you from my heart for your kindness—but—"
Eloise arose flushing, indignant. "Jack is a fighter; a better fighter than some people who strut around in khaki, and make great pretense, but amount to nothing," she said deliberately and with emphasis.