There was a gallant captain in the army who had slapped his colonel in the face on parade. Morally, as man to man, he had the right of it. But military law is inexorable. The verdict was dismissal from the service. I went with the poor fellow’s wife and her sister to see General Hancock at Governor’s Island. It was a most affecting meeting—the general, tears rolling down his cheeks, taking them into his arms, and, when he could speak, saying: “I can do nothing but hold up the action of the court till Monday. Your recourse is the President and a pardon; I will recommend it, but”—putting his hand upon my shoulder—“here is the man to get the pardon if the President can be brought to see the case as most of us see it.” At once I went over to Washington, taking Stephen French with me. When we entered the President’s apartment in the White House he advanced smiling to greet us, saying: “I know what you boys are after; you mean—” “Yes, Mr. President,” I answered, “we do, and if ever—” “I have thought over it, sworn over it, and prayed over it,” he said, “and I am going to pardon him!” V Another illustrative incident happened during the Arthur Administration. The dismissal of Gen. Fitz-John Porter from the army had been the subject of more or less acrimonious controversy. During nearly two decades this had raged in army circles. At length the friends of Porter, led by Curtin and Slocum, succeeded in passing a relief measure through Congress. They were in ecstasies. That there might be a presidential objection had not crossed their minds. Senator McDonald, of Indiana, a near friend of General Porter, and a man of rare worldly wisdom, knew better. Without consulting them he came to me. “You are personally close to the President,” said he, “and you must know that if this bill gets to the White House he will veto it. With the Republican National Convention directly ahead he is bound to veto it. It must not be allowed to get to him; and you are the man to stop it. They will listen to you and will not listen to me.” First of all, I went to the White House. “Mr. President,” I said, “I want you to authorize me to tell Curtin and Slocum not to send the Fitz-John Porter bill to you.” “Why?” he answered. “Because,” said I, “you will have to veto it; and, with the Frelinghuysens wild for it, as well as others of your nearest friends, I am sure you don’t want to be obliged to do that. With your word to me I can stop it, and have it for the present at least held up.” His answer was, “Go ahead.” Then I went to the Capitol. Curtin and Slocum were in a state of mind. It was hard to make them understand or believe what I told them. “Now, gentlemen,” I continued, “I don’t mean to argue the case. It is not debatable. I am just from the White House, and I am authorized by the President to say that if you send this bill to him he will veto it.”