“Well, I’m glad to see you,” he said to the Special Messenger; “come in while I shave. West, is there anything to eat? All right; I’m ready for it. Come in, Messenger, come in!”
She entered, closing the bedroom door; the general shook hands with her slyly, saying, “I’m devilish glad you got through, ma’am. Have any trouble down below?”
“Some, General.”
He nodded and began to shave; she stripped off her tight outer jacket, laid it on the table, and, ripping the lining stitches, extracted some maps and shreds of soft paper covered with notes and figures.
Over these, half shaved, the general stooped, razor in hand, eyes following her forefinger as she traced in silence the lines she had drawn. There was no need for her to speak, no reason for him to inquire; her maps were perfectly clear, every route named, every regiment, every battery labeled, every total added up.
Without a word she called his attention to the railroad and the note regarding the number of trains.
“We’ve got to get at it, somehow,” he said. “What are those?”
“Siege batteries, General—on the march.”
His mutilated mouth relaxed into a grin.
“They seem to be allfired sure of us. What are they saying down below?”