The boy who jumped out of the dark shadow of the bushes slapped his rifle hard, brought it to port sharply. “Mr. President,” he gasped, “if I had been an assassin you’d be dead by now!” Abraham Lincoln stopped, shifted his high hat. A few thin flakes of snow lay white against the silk. “And what would you have been doing, Joe, while an assassin was making a corpse out of me?” he asked amiably. “I’d have done the best I could to protect you, Mr. President, but it’s powerful dark out here,” stammered the flustered soldier. “I knew you were here, Joe, or I wouldn’t be out here,” Lincoln said. “Cold out here. Have you got some warm gloves?” “Can’t handle a gun with gloves, Mr. President. But I get relieved in an hour.” Lincoln looked at the sky. “Some mean weather making up, I’m afraid. Bad for Christmas. You boys keeping warm in those tents?” “Well, the way I figure, sir, we’re just as warm as those men of General Meade’s over across the river. And there ain’t nobody shooting at us, sir—I mean, Mr. President. The lieutenant ain’t going to like it, Mr. President, you walking out here alone. You want to walk, you need a couple of us boys along.” “I make a good mark, don’t I, Joe? I sort of rear up on the skyline like a steeple. Good thing it’s too dark for them to spot me. I look at it this way. If the good Lord wants me to stay on this job He’ll look after me. God and Company K. You see Tad anywhere?” “Yes, sir, Mr. President.” Joe stalked beside the tall figure, weapon alerted. “Tad’s down yonder to the corporal’s tent. He’s got his billy goat down there. Some of the boys fixed up an army cap for that goat and the corporal’s riveting a chin strap on it.” Joe trotted a little to keep up with the long stride of Lincoln. “Better anchor it tight or the goat will eat his headgear,” remarked Lincoln. “Mrs. Lincoln sent Tad to bed so she could fix up his Christmas presents. Tad always sleeps with me but when I went to my room he wasn’t there, so I decided he’d slipped down here.” “That goat sure means a lot to Tad, Mr. President. Tad treats him like he was folks. Nobody ever has found out what happened to the she-goat, sir. Last pass you give me I went all over that skinny town back yonder where the trash and niggers live but I never seen a sign of any goat—hide neither.” “Tad misses his brother. Christmas will be a sad time for all of us, but we’ll try to make it happy for Tad.” “Just about a year ago you lost your boy, wasn’t it, Mr. President?” “Last February. Lung fever. He got wet and took a cold. Mrs. Lincoln hasn’t gotten over it at all. She idolized her sons. We lost another one, you know, in Springfield. Little Eddie. But we have company, Joe. A great sorrowful company of people who have lost their sons.” Lincoln sighed heavily as he strode up to the lighted tent where a group of men hunkered down around Tad and his goat. The corporal dropped his awl and leather and jumped up, eyes bulging. “Attention!” he barked.