The soldiers passed on, and Bob, pale of face and much troubled in heart, went back to his hotel more determined than ever to take his father’s place in the ranks if, by any possible means, so desirable a substitution could be made. Notwithstanding his anxiety and the many noises in the streets, he slept fairly well, and at nine o’clock on the following morning he presented himself at the office of the provost-marshal. Many were already waiting to see that officer, and Bob had to take his place in line and await his turn. Most of those who swarmed about the marshal’s office were drafted men who were there to urge their claims for exemption from service on account of physical disability. Many were present with substitutes whom they had hired to serve for them. Some who had failed to respond to the notice of draft were being brought in by members of the provost-guard, to answer for their neglect or disobedience. When Bob’s turn finally came and he was ushered into the provost-marshal’s office, he did not quite know how to state his errand. A man in captain’s uniform sat behind a long table, busily writing. There were two or three clerks in various parts of the room, and soldiers with side-arms stood guard at the door. The provost-marshal looked up from his writing and saw Bob. “Well,” he said, “what’s your case?” [Illustration: “WELL, WHAT’S YOUR CASE?”] “I haven’t any case,” replied Bob, “except that I want to enlist in place of my father, who has been drafted.” “Go as a substitute, eh? Well, you want to see Lieutenant Morrison about that, in the next room. Your father is here, I suppose,” he added, as Bob turned away. “No,” replied Bob, “he isn’t. That’s the trouble. Nor does he know I’m here.” The captain laid down his pen and looked at the boy curiously. “That’s strange,” he said. “What’s the reason he don’t know?” Bob advanced a step closer to the marshal’s table. “Well, he isn’t in sympathy with the war. And when he was drafted he wouldn’t report. And when the soldiers came to arrest him he--they couldn’t find him.” “I see. And you--why did you come without his knowledge?” “Why, he wouldn’t have let me come if he knew. And I, I believe in the war. I want to be a soldier. And I thought if I could just take his place so he could stay home with mother and I could go and fight--why, I thought it would be better all around.” “What’s your father’s name?” “Bannister. Rhett Bannister.” The marshal’s face clouded. “Bannister of Mount Hermon?” “Yes, sir.” “I’m sorry, my boy, but, figuratively speaking, there’s a price on your father’s head. He’s a notorious rebel sympathizer, a regular secession firebrand. He has declared that the government will never take him alive. Very well, then, we’ll take him dead. But we can’t afford to accept a price for his freedom. Our orders are to get him, and we shall do it if it takes a regiment of soldiers.” The marshal took up his pen and made as if to resume his writing.