The captain laid down his pen and looked at the boy curiously.
“That’s strange,” he said. “What’s the reason he don’t know?”
Bob advanced a step closer to the marshal’s table.
“Well, he isn’t in sympathy with the war. And when he was drafted he wouldn’t report. And when the soldiers came to arrest him he--they couldn’t find him.”
“I see. And you--why did you come without his knowledge?”
“Why, he wouldn’t have let me come if he knew. And I, I believe in the war. I want to be a soldier. And I thought if I could just take his place so he could stay home with mother and I could go and fight--why, I thought it would be better all around.”
“I’m sorry, my boy, but, figuratively speaking, there’s a price on your father’s head. He’s a notorious rebel sympathizer, a regular secession firebrand. He has declared that the government will never take him alive. Very well, then, we’ll take him dead. But we can’t afford to accept a price for his freedom. Our orders are to get him, and we shall do it if it takes a regiment of soldiers.”
The marshal took up his pen and made as if to resume his writing.
“Then it’s no use,” inquired Bob weakly, “for me to think about substituting for him?”
“Not the slightest, my boy. But if you really want to serve your country, I’ll tell you what you can do. You can enlist. We need men and we’ll be glad to have you. Any recruiting officer will take your application. That’s all, isn’t it?”
“Very well, good-morning! Let in the next man, corporal.”
Bob left the office in a daze. The hope that for two days had lain next his heart, was suddenly blasted. He hardly knew what to do or which way to turn. He walked out through the crowd of waiting men, but he scarcely saw them, nor did they notice him. It was too common a sight in these days to see disappointed men leaving the marshal’s office, for any one to comment on this particular boy’s downcast look or halting step. He went out into the October sunlight, and, threading his way through throngs of citizens and soldiers, he walked down the eastern side of the public square. Well, it was all over. He had failed. His errand had simply served to emphasize his father’s disloyalty. What now? Should he go home, or-- The marshal had said something about his enlisting, anyway. How would that work? He had wandered into the street leading to the bridge across the Delaware. Suddenly he was aware that a man in soldier’s uniform, whom he had just met and passed, had stopped and turned and was calling to him. Bob faced about and looked. In an instant he recognized the soldier as Sergeant Anderson, who had arrested him and marched him off to Sarah Jane Stark’s house for breakfast.