Stanton's eyes were flashing through his gold rimmed glasses the wrath
he found difficult to express.
The President looked up with a friendly smile:
"Well, Mars, what's the trouble now?"
Stanton shook his leonine locks and beard in fury at the use of the
facetious word. He loathed levity of any kind and the one kind he could
not endure was the quip that came his way.
He regarded himself seriously every day, every hour, every minute in
every hour. He was the incarnate soul of Mars on earth. He knew and felt
it. He raged at the President's use of the term because he had a
sneaking idea that he was being laughed at--and that by a man who was
his inferior and yet to whom he was rendering indispensable service.
An angry retort rose to his lips, but he suppressed the impulse. It was
a waste of breath. The President was a fool--he would only laugh again
as he had done before. And so he plunged straight to the purpose of his
call:
"Before you get to your usual batch of passes and pardons this morning I
want to protest again, Mr. President, against your persistent
interference with the discipline of the army and the affairs of my
Department. Your pardons are hamstringing the whole service, sir. It
must stop if you expect your generals to control their men!"
"Is that all, Mars?" the even voice asked.
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