that was my boy, Mr. President--that was Dick!

"Funny how he enlisted," Dale resumed after a moment. "He'd been
tryin' to get in, but I kept him out. One night his mother sent him for a
dime's worth of clothes-line--and he never came back. He's not bad, Mr.
President; he's good--he gets it from his mother."

Dale lifted his head with pride: "When I was on the jury I heard
Judge Long say no one could be punished if their name wasn't written in
the indictment. Now, they didn't only convict Dick--they convicted
his mother--this whole world's her prison--and it's illegal, Mr.
President--her name wasn't written in that indictment--and it's her pardon
I want."

The President arose and walked the floor. "How could the man who
saved those colors shoot a comrade in his sleep? Mr. Dale, my faith in
human nature tells me that's a lie!"

He stood for an instant at the window, looking over the fountain, the
river, the tall white Washington needle which pierced the sky, then
quickly stepped to the table and lifted a glass:

"Mr. Dale, I propose a toast--'The Angel of Lonesome Hill' . . . her
liberty!"

* * * * *

As they returned to the office there was nothing extraordinary in the
President's vigorous step--that was known the world around. There
was something most unusual, however, in the radiant soul--the splendid