As he reached the top Dad vaulted the barrier and gained the far side, turning to help the boy down. Just then the charging men who followed them collided with the fence, and it went to matchwood under their rush. Jimmie was sent sprawling through the air, and landed breathless against the bole of a live-oak. Dad lifted the gasping boy to his feet. Not noticing who had done him this service, nor indeed that it had been done, Jimmie with a single gesture twisted the drum forward, and, running at full speed to regain his lead over the others, set the drum-sticks flying with unimpaired ardor to their noisy task again. But in the inferno of noise, here among the roaring big guns, where the hand-to-hand fighting was, and where the arching foliage acted as a sounding-board, the drum’s babel went almost unheard. Its work was done. The fire it had kindled needed now no fuel. Dad still close at his side, Jimmie plunged on through the biting smoke-whirl. Out of the blinding reek just in front towered a Virginia rifleman, stripped to the waist, his rifle clubbed. Glimpsing the blue of Jimmie’s uniform, the man aimed his clubbed gun for the lad’s head, doubtless ignorant in that haze and confusion that it was a boy and not a man at whom he smote. Up whirled the gunbutt. Jimmie, his eyes straight ahead, did not see the peril. But Dad, his eyes everywhere, saw it. Saw and forestalled it. Before the impending blow could fall his sword had flashed with the speed of light, and into the rifleman’s bare throat the point bit deep and far. The Virginian reeled back into the smoke-drift, his rifle clattering harmless to earth. Jimmie, blissfully excited, unaware of the danger averted from him, was running onward as fast as his stocky legs could move. For now, just in front, the fight was surging about one huge pivot--a point whose center was the great swivel-gun. Around this well-nigh priceless bit of war treasure--which, by the way, had no place in such an engagement--the Confederates rallied for their final stand. Ten gunners wheeled its black muzzle into play, but before a shot could be fired the Federals were upon them. Then it was hand-to-hand work, with no scope for solid shot or other artillery advantage. Into the mêlée plunged Battle Jimmie, shoulder to shoulder with the man to whose presence he was still oblivious. There was a confused second of tight-packed, grinding, breathless strife. Then in an instant the gray fighters fled--fled in every direction, leaving the gun and the rest of their artillery. After them through the shadowy tree-aisles, gray with smoke-clouds, rushed their Northern pursuers. Dad gripped the fast-following Jimmie by the shoulder, bringing the indignant youngster to a very sudden and fruitlessly wriggling halt. “Leggo!” snapped Jimmie, his war-lust at full flood. “Leggo, you old fool! They’re needing me out in front there; can’t you see--”