The Confederate involuntarily glanced down at his weapon--which, by the way, chanced to be fully cocked--and at the same instant Dad struck. He struck palm-wide with the speed of a cat. His open hand smote the Confederate across the knuckles; all the force of trained sinews and scientific skill behind the lightning-swift blow. The pistol was knocked clean out of the captain’s hand and tumbled into the bushes; happily and irretrievably removed from the situation. Dad’s hand in a flash was at his own holster. But too late he remembered that he had left his pistol in his tent--having had no idea that he should be riding that day beyond his own army’s lines. He knew, too, that Jimmie was unarmed; for he himself had very vigorously vetoed the boy’s yearning to keep on carrying a huge revolver. The ruse, to this point had succeeded with ridiculous ease. The Confederate, deceived by his captive’s meek submission, had been wholly unsuspecting. Wherefore Dad had been able, without trouble, to edge up within striking distance and by use of a time-honored trick to distract and then disarm his would-be captor. But as he reached in vain for his pistol the situation shifted once more. For the captain, his revolver lost, whipped out the light cavalry saber he carried, and, springing forward, swung the slender blade aloft for a stroke that should avenge his tricking. His colossal and courteous calm had momentarily forsaken him. There was no time for Dad to snatch his own sword, no chance for thinking. But the blind instinct, wherewith a thousand primeval ancestors have succeeded in enrolling themselves among the “fittest,” came to Dad’s aid. As the saber fell, he leaped back out of reach--yet barely far enough, for the blade grazed his arm in whizzing past; grazed it, glancingly; shearing a gash in coat and shirt sleeve, and the deflected blade raising a welt on the flesh of the upper arm. Before the weapon could be swung aloft for a second slash, or its wielder’s arm shortened for a lunge, Dad was at the Confederate’s throat. Bare-handed, unafraid, he ran in; too close to his foe to allow the use of saber play. The instinct that had prompted him to dodge and then to attack, had also warned him to come to grips before the saber could be put to use. Had Dad sought to strike or to keep for an instant longer at long range, the sword would have rendered him helpless. As it was at close quarters he rendered the saber a handicap rather than an aid to his enemy. Dad’s right hand found the captain’s throat. His left shot aloft and seized the wrist that brandished the saber. His lithe old body twisted forward and sideways into the “hiplock.” The Confederate, meantime tugging furiously to free his own imprisoned sword-arm, struck with all his might, his left fist clenched, at Dad’s face. Dad ducked and the blow landed full on the tough crown of his head.