Lincoln had kept his solemn vow--the vow to free the slaves should the tide of invasion be turned. All these bits of news as they reached camp were faithfully transmitted to Dad by that most zealous of nurses and entertainers, Battle Jimmie. The old man listened in wondering gratitude as he realized the boundless fruitage of the finding of “Order 191.” To Dad the whole thing was a miracle, and most miraculous of all to him was the praise showered on his embarrassed self by his fellow officers. “I feel like a blackleg, Jimmie,” he confided to his grandson on this his first day of removal from the tent’s interior to the sunshine outside its doorway. “I feel like the original man who stole the original other fellow’s thunder. Here folks keep coming to the tent and shaking hands with me and telling me what a big thing I did in getting that paper to Little Mac and what it’s meant to the country and all. “And I don’t know which way to look. Anybody’d think I’d ridden up to General Hill and grabbed him by the throat and held him helpless in the presence of all his overawed men while I went through his pockets for the order, instead of our just happening by a miracle of chance to find it lying on the ground. Why, _anyone_ might have happened to pick it up. It’s no credit.” “That’s right,” bravely agreed Jimmie, scratching Emp’s rough head as the multi-breed dog trotted back from a round of the cook-tents and lay down with a little grunt of repletion at his master’s feet. “That’s right. Anyone _might_ have found it, but ‘anyone’ didn’t. And if most folks had they wouldn’t ’a’ caught the point of it or known what to do with it. And it’s dead sure they wouldn’t ’a’ thought to send it in a rush to Little Mac at the minute a man’s fingers were trying for their throat. “Oh, I guess there’s one or two worse impostors than you, Dad.” The old man’s tired eyes suddenly grew bright with happy expectancy. Jimmie without turning to look divined the cause. “I can see fine out of the back of my head,” announced the boy. “For instance, I can see the mail-courier coming down this row right now with the hospital post-bag under his arm.” He twisted his head as he spoke, and pointed in triumph at the approaching post-bag bearer. “See!” he exclaimed. “What did I tell you? Sometimes it just fairly scares me to think how clever I’m getting to be. Lay back and rest. I’ll jump over to the office tent, and I’ll bring you her letter the second it tumbles out of the bag.” He was off at a dead run. Dad looked after him with the feeble impatience of the convalescent. Mrs. Sessions’ letters had been the event of each day to him. Not until Dad had recovered consciousness had Jimmie written to the little lady that his grandfather was wounded. A line from a staff surgeon, written at Jimmie’s plea, accompanied the letter, vouching for Dad’s recovery.