“That was the trouble. The recruiting sergeant sized me up the minute he set eyes on me--for all I’d stuffed hay in my shoes to make me taller and walked on my toes. But he got a bounty for all the fellers he put through, so he just shoved the Bible at me and told me to put my hand on it and say I was eighteen and it would be all right. And--and--I couldn’t.” “Of course not, Jimmie,” assented Dad softly. “We’re the fighting Brintons. Not the perjuring Brintons. It’s a terrible thing at best to have to lay your hand on the Book and swear to anything. But when there’s any shadow of doubt about the truth of the thing you swear to--why, a real _man_ can’t.” “How about the two other fellers? Aren’t they guilty of--” “‘Guilty’s’ a pretty big word for anybody except God to use. What happened next?” “I had eighteen dollars in my window-bank. I bought a second-hand uniform, cut it down myself, and then bought a second-hand drum. And I lit out for the Mississippi, where I heard some of the Ohio regiments were fighting. I had a kind of hope I’d find you. “I got to a place where our men were trying to storm a battery. I--I couldn’t wait, the way I meant to, to ask some drum major to take me on as drummer-boy. First thing I knew I was in front of our line, banging the drum and telling the men to come on. And--they came.” “Good boy! Fighting Brinton!” “After that they kind of adopted me in the army of the West. Let me come and go as I would. And called me ‘Battle Jimmie’ and tried to make a pet of me. Gee! Do _I_ look like a pet? “I asked everywhere for you, and I got hold of all the army lists I could. There wasn’t any news of you in the army of the West. But I saw a man there--a man those Western soldiers say is a wonder--who may be the same man you used to tell me about. The one you used to know in Mexico as Captain Grant. I guess he’s the same one, because he was a captain in the Mexican War. He’s general now. A man without a word in his mouth, but with all the military sense there is. “One day last month I came across a list of commissioned officers of the Army of the Potomac. It had your name. So here I came. “I got to the army’s headquarters yesterday and I found what corps you were with and where it was. I borrowed an artillery horse and cut across country to look for you. I got here just as you fellers were charging the woods. “That’s all about me. Now, how about _you_, Dad? You’ve succeeded. You’re a captain. Isn’t it wonderful? How did it happen? I knew it would.” Briefly, Dad sketched his adventures; the hot little hand in his, thrilling with the recital, the boy’s light eyes raised to his in stark hero-worship. As Dad came to the scene in the old Virginia homestead his voice shook a little with embarrassment. He glossed over all that part of the tale save the little widow’s surpassing goodness to himself. He congratulated himself on the tactful secrecy wherein he was shrouding any hint of sentiment.