On Porter, the touch of sleep, the welcome cup of coffee, and more than anything else his daughter's soothing presence, seemed to have a marked effect. He sat up, leaning back heavily, and with a struggle collected his thoughts. Katherine joked with him, and fussed over him with a maternal solicitude that made the Captain smile.
At eight-thirty, as Porter was sipping another cup of coffee, the corporal appeared.
“A man says he's got to see Mr. Porter, sir. A Mr. McNally.”
“McNally,” cried Porter, starting up only to sink back, breathing heavily. “Bring him here. I've got to see him.”
The Captain hesitated.
“Did he state his business?”
“No, sir. But he has a pass through the lines at Sawyerville, signed by Colonel Wray.”
“Um—let him come in.”
It was not the Mr. McNally who had played for Katherine two nights before. That had been a well-groomed, self-possessed man of the world; this was a muddy, unshaven, angry man, who spoke in a loud voice and smothered an oath just too late to keep it from her ear.
He recovered somewhat, but even McNally could not lose sleep and temper for so many hours without a more or less immediate result. As she looked at him with a cool bow, Katherine thought of Harvey, and something caught in her throat.