“I know. I’m sorry. But I thought this would be nice to take along. I’ve always wanted one. There isn’t any great hurry about father. He isn’t badly hurt. I knew that as soon as I looked at him. I’ve seen enough of them to know. I guess he’s mostly scared.” “Jimmie!” “When I saw him it seemed like I was almost a kid again. You don’t suppose he’ll make me go back to school again, do you, Dad? I--I wonder who used to own this bayonet, and why he threw it away, whoever he was? Or if he had no more use for bayonets and things.” The boy fell silent there in the acrid haze, looking into unnamable distances, seeing in his mind’s eye the ceaseless columns of sternly marching men. Dad looked at the bayonet. On its haft there was a dried spot--a spot that had once been red and wet-- It was the jack-knife that war gives its children. Dad felt a queer sensation in the corners of his eyes, and, surreptitiously wiping them, muttered something about “this blamed hay-fever,” and pretended to be very brusk and ordered, with an abominably poor imitation of sarcasm: “When--when you get through with all the important duties that seem to be worrying you so, you skedaddle across the fields and see if you can find me that nurse or surgeon for your father. Get out! Keep a running! It isn’t like you to loaf like this. And I’m surprised at you. And--remember to ask for a Mrs. Sessions, as I told you. It is an off-chance. But in war, off-chances are the kind that happen. Now, scurry. Stop wasting time.” “I’m sorry,” said Jimmie. “I guess it’s the sight of father that’s somehow taken all the ginger out of me. I’m going.” Boyish memories of the dread men he had seen marching--marching--marching--faded from Jimmie’s face. He sprang up to attention, his eyes bright and keen, his thin, brown little hand at his temple in a cocky salute, while he cried: “As you order, captain!” He started off across lots. He was not a small boy going on an errand. He was a well-trained and extremely weary and unconsciously pathetic little soldier who had seen death ride down the ranks of drawn battle. His reaction had, boylike, taken the form of mischievous perverseness. He was very tired. He made his short legs carry him on and on, though he wanted to drop; while his eyes swept every thicket for possible Confederate stragglers or skirmishers along his way. As he reached the main road running back to the town and the distant Federal lines, he saw a movement in the sumac-bushes, now glittering with the fire of approaching autumn. What was it? He couldn’t afford to get shot or captured now. He had to bring a nurse. Dad had told him to. Jimmie instantly dropped to the ground and lay without movement. He could almost see the stern, quiet, deadly face of the foeman who must be hidden there in that nearest bush, perhaps already aware of him and taking his aim--perhaps taking aim right at his breast as he lay there so quietly. But he did not move. He waited.