"Shoe the army with my canoes, sir, and they can all walk on water——"
"And yet they say the age of miracles has passed! Take it over to old Neptune's office. He's a sad man at times and I like him. This ought to cheer him."
The next one was a man of unusually interesting face. A typical Yankee farmer with whiskers spilling over his collar from his neck and bristling up against his clean shaven chin. He handed the President a model of a new musket. He examined it with care and fixed the man with his gaze:
"Well, sir?"
"Hit's the rekyle, sir," he explained softly. "Hit's the way she's hung on the stock."
"Oh——"
"Ye see, sir," he went on earnestly, "a gun ought not to rekyle, and ef hit rekyles at all, hit ought to rekyle a leetle forred——"
"Right you are!" the President roared with laughter. "Your logic's sound whether your gun kicks or not. I say so, too. A gun ought not to rekyle at all, and if it does rekyle, by jinks, it ought to rekyle and hit the other fellow, not us!"
The tall figure dropped into the chair by his desk and laughed again.
"Come in again, Brother 'Rekyle' and we'll talk it over when I've got more time."