Then the sumac-bushes parted, and out from between the roots peered the furry, eager face of a dog; impudent, inquiring, with his ragged left ear flapping gayly over his eyes while he stared indignantly at the silent figure in the roadside ditch. That eye seemed to be volubly remarking: “What the dickens are you doing there? Trying to fool a poor dog that ain’t either Johnnie Reb or Yank; but just a plain, ornery, scared mongrel, boy’s dog as can hunt you out gophers?” At least, that’s what Jimmie would have sworn the forlorn mongrel said as he peered out from the sumacs. “Howdy, dog? Where y’ going?” Jimmie inquired, sitting up. The dog himself said nothing but “Y-e-e-e-e-e-h.” But his tail, going flippety-flip, flippety-flip against the brush, announced its entire friendliness. The answer was much the same as before, while the dog looked still more friendly and whined a little. He cocked his ears up over his head. “Think you’re Napoleon Bonaparte, don’t you, with your cocked hat made out of ears? All right; that’s your name, then--let’s see?--Emperor Napoleon Peter Bub Bonaparte Brinton Dog, Esquire. I give you that name all for your own. Got a master? Well, come on then. Gotta hurry. Come on, boy!” He whistled. And down the road started the boy afresh, cheered by companionship. And the dog, which seemed to take it for granted that he had a new owner, followed. As they drew up to the line of sentries about the hospital bivouac, panting with haste, a sentry stopped them, mumbling: “Wh’ go th’r’?” “Aw--y’ know me!” snapped Jimmie. “Lemme by. I’m in a hurry.” “Sure I know you,” grinned the sentry. “You’re Gen’ral McClellan. But who’s that four-footed gent with you? He must be a gen’ral, too--ain’t he? I notice he’s a little gray--all of him as ain’t brown or red or yaller or just plain dirt-colored.” Jimmie drew himself up to the dread height of his full four foot seven and stalked by, meekly followed by Napoleon Peter Bub Bonaparte Brinton Dog, Esq., while the sentry scoffed after the twain: “He’s a well-bred trick, all right; he’s got more kinds o’ breedin’ in him than all the dogs I ever see. Them forepaws look to me like South Boston bull, but I guess his second toe-nail on his lift hind foot is St. Bernard.” Across the camp trailed a couple of Q. M. wagons drawn by tired mules, which had come pounding down the turnpike laden with nurses. The lieutenant-surgeon in charge cantered beside them on a bay mare. Running up to him, Jimmie bawled out in a commanding treble: “Halt! Beg pardon, loot’nant, but--” “Well, well, well, well, well!” snapped the surgeon, drawing rein sharply. “What is it? What is it? What is it? What is it?” “Jimminy crickets! Zif once saying it wouldn’t be enough!” complained Jimmie, down inside himself; while aloud he begged, quickly: “Captain James Dadd sent me for a nurse for an awful dangerous wounded man he’s looking after down there in the cottage off to the right from the road.”