“Jimmie!” roared Dad, the old voice vibrant with an authority the lad could not disregard. “Listen to me! (No, I don’t need any help. Keep away from his feet.) That bit of paper you found. The one that scared your horse. The one I was reading. Where is it? Find it! _Quick!_” He bent to the task of quieting the wriggling Confederate; then went on: “Find it! Is--” “Here it is,” said Jimmy, sighting the fallen paper a few feet away and going to pick it up. “But, say, let me help--” “Have you got it?” demanded Dad, far too busy with his fallen antagonist to look around. “Yes, sir. Here it is. Oh, Dad, smash him! Don’t let him wriggle free. Why don’t you hit him? He ain’t really down! Make him say he’s had enough. Want any help, sir? Shall I pitch in, too? Or can I sic Emp onto him? I--” “Quick, son!” broke in Dad, his voice shaken by passionate earnestness, as he bent every atom of strength to maintain his position above his foe. “Take that paper, jump on the horse in the path yonder, and _ride_ straight to General McClellan! I pointed out his headquarters to you. Get that paper to him. No matter what happens to stop you. _Get_ it to him, and tell him how we found it. Ride, lad! Hang on by mane, or saddle, or any way you like, but _ride_! It’s for our country. It may even save the Union. You can serve America to-day better than fifty generals. Get that paper to him! Into his own hands! Ride the horse to death if you have to!” Each sentence came in a shouted gasp. At the first words the Confederate had redoubled his struggles and, by a mighty heave, had all but reversed their positions. Despite the handicap of a broken hand and wrenched shoulder the Southerner was fighting like a wildcat. And knowledge of the injuries made Dad gentle in dealing with him. The old man struck no blow; merely held to earth his writhing opponent, and shouted the gasping commands to his grandson. In all his fifteen years, Battle Jimmie had never heard so excited, so madly pleading a tone in his beloved grandfather’s voice. In no way understanding the cause for the vehemence, he felt none the less the pressing need to obey. If, in that tone, Dad had bidden him eat one of the horses, Jimmie would at once have started to gnaw the nearest hoof. He ran down the slope, seized the rein and pommel of the captain’s horse, a black Virginia thoroughbred, scrambled to the saddle, sticking the sheet of paper inside the neck of his shirt, and dug his heels into the horse’s side with every ounce of his energy. Much has been written--chiefly in verse--of the intelligence and loyalty of a thoroughbred horse. But that same loyalty and intelligence does not prevent him from allowing himself to be ridden away by a thief from under the very eyes of his master. Wherein even the best horse appears to show infinitely less sense and affection than does a mongrel dog or even an alley cat. Under his new and clumsy rider’s exhortations, the black thoroughbred bounded up the slope.