“They were very carefully prepared--for the enemy. They are crammed with vital and categorical misinformation of the most interesting kind as to our movements, our numbers, our disposition. It is an old trick. But the papers were so carefully prepared that, carried by a palpably honest man--” “I see, sir,” broke in Dad, a wave of honest hot wrath driving all thought of discipline momentarily from his brain. “And I was the dupe. The honest fool who would make a blundering effort to get through to you and would honestly and vehemently resist capture; so that on my dead or captured body the false information would be found. I catch the idea.” “A soldier’s duty,” began Hooker, “is to--” “Is to obey orders. And in a war like this most soldiers enlisted prepared to throw away their lives blithely for their endangered country. “I am no exception. If my commanding officer had told me what I was expected to do those documents would be in General Jackson’s camp now, and I would be on my way to the hell of a Southern war-prison. I am not indignant at being used in this way for the good of my country, nor even at being used as a catspaw. But I _am_ indignant at failing to serve the cause through my very effort to succeed in doing it. “If I have spoken too freely I ask your pardon, sir. But, if I may suggest it, it would be better another time to tell me frankly what I am supposed to do, or else to choose some less zealous man as dupe.” Hooker, no whit offended by his subordinate’s unusual language, listened patiently to the close of the angered outburst. “What is that for?” he asked as Dad paused for breath. And as he asked he pointed toward the courier’s left hip. Dad glanced down, following the direction of the inquiring gesture. Thrust through his belt was the naked sword Mrs. Sessions had given him. Vaguely he remembered placing it there for safe keeping and to have it out of his way, as he had ridden on after the four fleeing guerrillas had galloped up the by-way. In the night’s stirring perils and need for eternal watchfulness he had forgotten it. Now, blushing like a schoolboy--his keen soldier-sense horrified by so glaring an error in his equipment--more chagrined at the unpardonable lapse than had he been caught going barefoot to a Presidential review--shame swallowed his former resentment. “I--I apologize, sir,” he said contritely, “for appearing in your presence wearing a commissioned officer’s sword.” “Where did you happen on it?” “I lost my revolver. The sword was--was given me for self-defense at a house where I hid when guerrillas were after me. I used it in getting away again; then stuck it in my belt in case I should be attacked in close quarters at some time during the night.”