The division to which Dick, Warner, and Whitley belonged marched over the Long Bridge and camped near the capital where they would remain until sent on further service.  Dick now saw that the capital was in no danger.  Troops were pouring into it by every train from the north and west.  All they needed was leadership and discipline.  Bull Run had stung, but it did not daunt them and they asked to be led again against the enemy.  They heard that Lincoln had received the news of the defeat with great calmness, and that he had spent most of a night in his office listening to the personal narratives of public men who had gone forth to see the battle, and who at its conclusion had left with great speed.

“Lots of people have laughed at Abe Lincoln an’ have called him only a rail-splitter,” said Whitley, “but I heard him two or three times, when he was campaignin’ in Illinois, an’ I tell you he’s a man.”

“He was born in my state,” said Dick, “and I mean to be proud of him.  He’ll have support, too.  Look how the country is standing by him!”

More than once in the succeeding days Dick Mason’s heart thrilled at the mighty response that came to the defeat of Bull Run.  The stream of recruits pouring into the capital never ceased.  He now saw men, and many boys, too, like himself, from every state north of the Ohio River and from some south of it.  Dan Whitley met old logging friends from Wisconsin whom he had not seen in years, and George Warner saw two pupils of his as old as himself.

Dick had inherited a sensitive temperament, one that responded quickly and truthfully to the events occurring about him, and he foresaw the beginning of a mighty struggle.  Here in the capital, resolution was hardening into a fight to the finish, and he knew from his relatives when he left Kentucky that the South was equally determined.  There was an apparent pause in hostilities, but he felt that the two sections were merely gathering their forces for a mightier conflict.

His comrades and he had little to do, and they had frequent leaves of absence.  On one of them they saw a man of imposing appearance pass down Pennsylvania Avenue.  He would have caught the attention of anybody, owing to his great height and splendid head crowned with snow-white hair.  He was old, but he walked as if he were one who had achieved greatly, and was conscious of it.

“It’s Old Fuss and Feathers his very self,” said Whitley.

“General Scott.  It can be no other,” said Dick, who had divined at once the man’s identity.  His eyes followed the retreating figure with the greatest interest.  This was the young hero of the War of 1812 and the great commander who had carried the brilliant campaign into the capital of Mexico.  He had been the first commander-in-chief of the Northern army, and, foreseeing the great scale of the coming war, had prepared a wide and cautious plan.  But the public had sneered at him and had demanded instant action, the defeat at Bull Run being the result.