“Emp,” said Jimmie in a tone of laboriously patient explanation as to a stupid pupil--“Emp is my dog. That isn’t all his name; it’s just the short of it. Dad’s my grandfather. He’s a brevet-major. I’m Jim Brinton.” “Brinton?” queried McClellan, repeating his own middle name. “The soldiers call me ‘Battle Jimmie,’” explained the lad. “Battle Jimmie!” cried Hooker. “So you’re the youngster who--” “Yes, sir. I’m that one. Shall I go on about the paper?” “Yes. More slowly.” “Dad read it, and he got all het up over it. And he said it must get here right away. That everything depended on it. And that must be so, ’cause Dad knows.” “So he sent you here with it?” asked McClellan. “If he is an officer in the army here, it would have saved time and explanation if he had brought it here himself.” “How could he?” flared Jimmie instantly aflame at the implied slur on his idol. “How could he? Tell me that. He couldn’t stop fighting, could he?” “Fighting? No skirmish on the Sharpesburg road has been reported here. What troops were engaged? Do you know?” “Dad was. And the Confed, of course.” “What Confederate?” asked the exasperated general. “The one I left Dad thrashing. The one who said we were his prisoners. Dad licked him long before this.” “Hold on, sonny,” intervened Hooker, forestalling a movement of vexed bewilderment on McClellan’s part. “Let’s get this straight. Just answer my questions as simply as you can.” In a dozen well-put queries Hooker got from the boy the whole story, beginning with the runaway and ending with Jimmie’s arrival at headquarters. McClellan’s face lost its look of impatience as he listened; and it lighted into keen interest. “This Dad of yours must be a paladin of valor, besides having a quick, cool brain of his own,” he commented as Jimmie finished. “His country owes him an unpayable debt for sending this dispatch to me so promptly. It is more important than I could make you understand. By the way, you haven’t told us his name?” “His name? Dad’s? Why, he’s Brevet-Major James Dadd. I thought I told you that.” The two generals exchanged a quick glance that was quite lost on Jimmie. “James Dadd!” exclaimed McClellan. “James Brinton,” gravely corrected Hooker. Jimmie wheeled on him. “Who told you that?” he demanded truculently, eyes ablaze and red hair bristling. “Never mind that, my lad!” laughed Hooker. “I--” “Look here, you!” cried Jimmie, trembling with fierce indignation. “Now that you people have spied on Dad and spotted his secret, I s’pose you’ll want to turn him out of the army. He said you might. He told me so before he joined. Well, if you do, it’ll be the rottenest trick anyone ever played. He’s the dandiest fighter you’ve got. And he’s the greatest man that ever was.