“Lemme go!” he grunted. “Dad says the whole army’s fate depends on--” “Shall I have him turned over to the provost-marshal, sir?” obsequiously queried the secretary, “or--” “Wait!” It was “Fighting Joe” Hooker who, choking back his helpless laughter, shouted the order. The secretary, his question half-uttered, shut his mouth and stood at attention. The sentinel paused with uplifted fist poised in the act of seeking vengeance for the jaw-blow that had made him see stars and had loosened two of his best teeth. Even McClellan turned from the turmoil to stare in surprise at his subordinate general. “Wait!” repeated Hooker. “By your leave, General McClellan?” He glanced at his chief for permission to take over the situation. McClellan nodded. “I think, general,” went on Hooker, “with your consent, we can do worse than to wait for a minute or so. I don’t at all understand what any of this means. But one or two things lead me to think it may be worth a question or two. It isn’t an every-day occurrence for a boy in Federal uniform trousers to ride up on a Confederate army horse and fight his way into the commanding general’s presence, just for the sake of handing that commanding general a bunch of soiled waste paper. May I suggest, general, that we let the boy wait here an instant while we glance at the paper?” He stooped and picked up the crumpled sheet, handling its unclean outer side gingerly as he proceeded to unfold it. Then he glanced at the written words. The others standing at gaze, McClellan vexedly chewing his mustache. Hooker’s thin face wore a mask of crass perplexity as his eyes ran down the sheet. “General McClellan!” he exclaimed, his voice uncertain. He handed the paper to his superior, who received it as under protest and cast his eye over its first few lines. Then his face all at once took on an aspect of amaze, ludicrously like that of Hooker. McClellan strode hastily to the window embrasure, followed by Hooker. Side by side, their backs to the others, the two generals read and reread the paper. Then they fell into eager, excited conversation, speaking in tense whispers. Meantime the gorgeous secretary stood looking blankly at their backs. The sentinel, his hand still on Jimmie’s shirt-collar, stared at everybody in turn, mouth ajar. Jimmie alone had no special interest in the proceedings. He had delivered the mysteriously precious paper into General McClellan’s own hands, as Dad had bidden him; and General McClellan had read it. Nothing remained now but to obey Dad’s second command to tell McClellan how and where the paper had been found. And as the sentinel had been called off from ejecting him from the room, there was every prospect that he would be able to perform this part of his mission, too. But all in good time. At present General McClellan seemed far too busy to listen. Soon, no doubt, he would get through making conjectures and begin to ask questions. That was the way with grown people.