Presently, as they were discussing a certain disastrous attempt to rally a retreating regiment, he heard a newly joined member of his company--who formerly had fought in the army of the West--break loudly in upon the group’s debating: “Talk of rallying! We ought to have had Battle Jimmie along. He’d have drummed that whole skedaddling regiment to a halt in less than no time; and then he’d have led ’em back to the firing-line, blackguarding them for a rabble of cowards every step of the way.” “What’s Battle Jimmie?” drawled a lank New Englander. “That’s a new name to me. What is it--a dog or a bird or a patent medicine?” “Don’t know who Battle Jimmie is?” cried the Westerner in scornful incredulity. “Next you’ll be askin’ who’s Little Mac or Father Abraham or Fightin’ Joe.” “Maybe I will at that,” answered the New Englander. “But who the dickens is--” “Battle Jimmie? There ain’t a man in the army of the West who’d ask that question. And yet--I dunno who he is. Nobody does. First time we ever saw him was back in the late fall. We were chargin’ a line of batteries on a hill, and as fast as we’d get halfway up the hill we’d break and scuttle back to cover, which sure wasn’t none too healthy on that hillside. “The fourth time we tackled the hill we hadn’t any too much love for the job, and we began to waver and get unenthusiastic before we’ve gone a quarter of the distance. Then all of a sudden, skallyhootin’ out of nowhere, comes Battle Jimmie. “He’s in a cast-off uniform miles too big for him, and he’s got hold of a drum somehow or other. And, say, boys, the noise he could tease out of that old drum was sure a caution to snakes. “Right in front of our first rank he runs, hammerin’ away at that blessed drum; chargin’ up the hill ahead of us in a whole beehive of bullets and grape, yellin’: ‘Come along, you lazy coots! Shake a leg there! Don’t keep me waitin’ when I get to the top. I don’t want the bother of havin’ to clean out them Johnnie Reb batteries all by myself!’ “There was one great big laugh went up that was more like a cheer. It came roarin’ out from the whole line. We forgot to be discouraged any more, and up the hill we kited after that fool boy and his drum. “We didn’t stop till we was over the breastworks and right in among the guns, and the Confeds was scramblin’ out the opposite side to get away. After that Battle Jimmie could have his pick of anythin’ the army of the West had in their whole camp--” The arrival of a roan cavalry charger, led by an orderly, ended the narrative of Battle Jimmie, so far as Dad was concerned. His mind full of his mission, he had given little attention to it. Now, swinging into the saddle, he set off at an easy canter. Ahead of him lay an errand whose chances of success the general himself had estimated as one in ten. The prospect of such fearful odds sent a glad thrill of combat tingling warmly through the veteran.