“Maybe you can, Milo. You go on back to B Company and be a good soldier and likely you’ll make captain before this war is over.” “Mr. President, I can’t do it! I run off. They’ll put me in the guardhouse!” Lincoln scratched his chin. “That was very unwise of you, soldier. But you can’t dodge your military responsibility. I reckon you’ll just have to go to the guardhouse. If you should try to hedge out of it you’d be as poor a soldier as that captain of B Company you complain about. It won’t be too bad. Good luck to you, son.” The boy said, “Thank you, sir,” and backed out, twisting his cap in his hands. “Stand up straight, look the captain in the eye, and admit you ran off, son,” advised Lincoln. “You needn’t tell him you came here to get his job away from him.” “No, sir, I sure won’t.” John Hay came in when the young trooper had gone. “I shouldn’t have let him in perhaps, Mr. President,” he explained, “but he said he had an important message for you.” “It was important. To Milo Potter,” smiled Lincoln. “No harm done, Johnny.” “Your son is waiting, sir. Shall I send him in?” “Must be Bob. Tad would have already been in.” Robert came in, took a chair, and folded his hands, his young mouth sober. “I had to know, sir,” he began, “have they been making attempts to kill you?” “Bob, there are several million people who think that the man who kills me should wear a hero’s crown. And there are a lot of people who yearn to be heroes,” Lincoln said calmly. “You should be better protected. You shouldn’t take risks!” “They’re trying to protect me now, Bob, till I can’t hardly draw my own breath.” “That fellow who just went out. Did you even know him?” persisted the boy. “He was harmless. I reckon Johnny even took his jackknife away from him. I have to see ’em, son. I have to hear their story. That’s why they put me here,” declared his father. “About the Army, Papa—I’m deadly serious.” “The trouble is, Bob, that your mother is deadly serious, too. She’s lost two boys,” Lincoln reminded him. “So have other women.” “I know. Give her a little more time, Bob. Till the end of this year anyway. The war isn’t going to end before New Years’ Day.” “I shan’t wait much longer, I promise you,” threatened Robert, standing tall. “Just promise me to the end of this school year. Then we’ll talk about it again.” “And you’ll talk to Mama? Make her see that it’s something I have to do?” “I’ll talk to Mama,” agreed Abraham Lincoln. “I’ll do my best, son.” But when, he was thinking wearily after the boy had gone, had his best ever been good enough to prevail against Mary’s ready tears? 7 “Bob,” Abraham Lincoln said, when he went back to the family rooms, “I need some help. Your mother has very graciously provided some little Christmas cheer for those boys out there of Company K. The things are all here in this big box. I’ll need you to help pass ’em out.”