“I enlisted under an assumed name,” said Dad slowly and forcing each word from his whitened lips, “because I did not believe I would be accepted under my own name.” “But why? With a war record--By the way, if it is a fair question, what is your name?” “My name,” said Dad, bidding farewell to hope, “is James Brinton.” “Brinton?” repeated Hooker reflectively. “Brinton?” He was evidently racking his brain. And presently he found what he sought. For he glanced up, wide-eyed. “Not--not the Brinton who--” “Who was kicked out of the army for drunkenness and for grossly insulting the general commanding,” supplemented Dad, his voice dead as though he were reciting some entirely impersonal fact. “I remember,” said Hooker briefly. Then fell a pause. The two men were eying each other. Hooker’s face a mask; Dad’s white and wretched. It was Dad who broke the silence. “You will wish--General McClellan will wish--my resignation?” he said haltingly. “It irks me to beg a favor of any man, sir. But I entreat you not to drive me from the army. You can take away my commission if it seems best to you. But let me serve in the ranks. “If I did wrong I have paid for it. Paid more heavily than I have words to tell you or than you would care to hear. “I do not ask anything except leave to serve my country at a time when she needs every man she can get. Drunkards, thieves, blackguards are recruited in every regiment nowadays and no questions are asked. May I not serve, too? If I have forfeited a right to my commission, at least let me--” “Major Dadd,” interposed Hooker, his voice harsh and more abrupt than ever, “you talk like a fool. You have brooded over a silly piece of ancient history till it has made you lose all judgment. “Why, man,” he broke out angrily, “what in blazes does Uncle Sam care about your getting drunk fifteen years ago and telling old Fuss-and-Feathers what you thought of him? Many a perfectly sober man has said worse things of poor old Scott.” “But--but, sir--” “But nothing! Here you’ve been doing a real man’s work for a year or more and getting none of the benefits of it, first because you are dunce enough to think the American nation has nothing to do but remember you once got drunk! Why, half the country has even forgotten the Mexican War. And the other half doesn’t care if a man named Brinton chased Scott with an ax. Ever hear of Grant in those Mexican days? He was down there.” “Yes, sir,” stammered Dad, his brain a-whirl. “I--” “Well, he’s doing big things out West, just now. And some idiot complained the other day to Lincoln that Grant enjoys a bout with John Barleycorn, now and then. “Do you know what the President said? He said: ‘I wish I knew what brand of whisky Grant uses. I’d buy a hogshead of it for every other general in the army.’