“We've got 'em! we've got 'em!” he cried over and over again.
“So we have,” said Dick, “we'll be marching in a half hour and then the trap will shut down so tight on Robert Lee that he'll never raise the lid again.”
It was nearly noon, and they expected every moment the order to start, but it did not come. Dick began to be tormented by an astonished impatience, and he saw that Colonel Winchester suffered in the same way. The army showed no signs of moving. Was it possible that McClellan would not advance at once on Lee, whom the scouts had now located definitely? The hot afternoon hours grew long as they passed one by one, and many a brave man ate his heart out with anger at the delay. Dick saw Sergeant Whitley walking up and down, and he was eager to hear his opinion.
“What is it, sergeant?” he asked. “Why do we sit here, twiddling our thumbs when there is an army waiting to be taken by us?”
“You're a commissioned officer, sir, and I'm only a private.”
“Never mind about that. You're a veteran of many years and many fights, and I know but little. Why do we sit still in the dust and fail to take the great prize that's offered to us?”
“The men of an army, sir, do the fighting, but its generals are its brains. It is for the brains to judge, to see and to command. The generals cannot win without the men, and the men cannot win without the generals. Now, in this case, sir, you can see—”
He stopped and shrugged his shoulders, as if it were not for him to say any more.
“I see,” said Dick bitterly. “You needn't say it, sergeant, but I'll say it for you. General McClellan has been overcome by caution again, and he sees two Johnnies where but one stands.”
Sergeant Whitley shrugged his shoulders again, but said nothing. Dick was about to turn away, when he saw a tall, thin figure approaching.