“Any name will do,” said Brinton impatiently as he bent to lace his shoes. “John Smith is as good as another, I suppose.” “Well, you s’pose wrong,” chided Jimmie. “S’pose an off’cer or one of the men says: ‘Hey, there, Smith!’ Half the time you won’t remember you’re John Smith at all, and you won’t know enough to answer. And then everybody’ll know it isn’t your own name.” “That’s so!” laughed Brinton. “I’ll have to teach myself my new name as I go along. That’ll be the way to get around _that_!” “It takes an awful long time to get used to a name,” philosophized Jimmie. “Even now, when mother calls me ‘James’ I don’t always catch on, because I’m so much useder to being Jimmie. “But I’ve thought out that, too. You’re name is Dadd. D-A-D-D. You pronounce it just the same as D-A-D. James Dadd. It ain’t as swell a name as Claude Reginald de Montmorency. But it’s safer. “You see,” he explained, “when anyone calls you ‘James,’ then, or ‘Dadd,’ why, you’ll be so used to both names that you’ll answer to either of ’em right straight off without having to stop to think about it at all. That’s the idea. Do you see what I mean?” “Jimmie,” said Dad, with heartfelt conviction, “if you had one speck more sense your brain would explode! I take off my hat to you. You’re not a wonder. You’re two wonders--even three. James Dadd it shall be.” Fully dressed now, he paused, and, dropping his hands on his grandson’s shoulders, looked down at the ugly, earnest little face upturned to his own in the white moonshine that filtered into the room. “My boy,” he said very tenderly, very earnestly, “the Book of Books says something about ‘out of the mouths of babes.’ And, as usual, the Book is right. For fourteen years I’ve been wandering off the path and into dirtier sloughs than you’d understand about if I were to tell you. To-night you’ve put my feet on the firm, hard road again. And, please God, they’ve strayed from it for the last time. “I’m no hand at sermonizing, and this is no time to preach. But I’m going to make up for what I’ve lost. I’m going to make you proud of me. I’m going to serve this dear country of ours as only a man who loves her as I do _can_ serve her. I’m going to break with the worthless sot I’ve been for fourteen years. And I’m going to win back so help me! I’m going to be a man--a _man_!” He paused, his clasp tightening on his little grandson’s shoulders, the expression in his eyes as he looked down into the still rigidly upturned face before him softening to warmer tenderness. “And, son, it’s you who have shown me the way. Just remember that always. And--if it turns out that I shouldn’t happen to come back, just remember it’s the cleanest, whitest way a man could wish to die. And remember, then, that it’ll some day be your turn to take the place that’s come down to you through the generations--to be a Fighting Brinton.”