pears about as well as Jim Rickets. Well, one night here comes Jim along the road, whistling; to court Susan, and there was the ugly galoot a-yearning on the bank under the pear tree. Jim was all fixed up, and he says to the galoot, 'Let's have a throw.' Now the galoot knew old Bell was looking over the fence So he says, 'All right,' and he gives Jim the first shot--Jim fetched down the big pear, got his teeth in it, and strolled off to the house, kind of pitiful of the galoot for a, half-witted ass. When he got to the door, there was the old man. 'What are you here for?' says he. 'Why,' says Rickets, in his off-hand way, for he always had great confidence, 'to fetch Sue.'"
"The old man used to wear brass toes to keep his boots from wearing out," said Mr. Lincoln, dreamily.
"You see," continued Mr. Lincoln, "you see the galoot knew that Jim Rickets wasn't to be trusted with Susan Bell."
Some of the gentlemen appeared to see the point of this political parable, for they laughed uproariously. The others laughed, too. Then they slapped their knees, looked at Mr. Lincoln's face, which was perfectly sober, and laughed again, a little fainter. Then the Judge looked as solemn as his title.
"It won't do, Abe," said he. "You commit suicide."
"You'd better stick to the pear, Abe," said Mr. Medill, "and fight Stephen A. Douglas here and now. This isn't any picnic. Do you know who he is?"
"Why, yes, Joe," said Mr. Lincoln, amiably. "He's a man with tens of thousands of blind followers. It's my business to make some of those blind followers see."
By this time Stephen was burning to know the question that Mr. Lincoln wished to ask the Little Giant, and why the other gentlemen were against it. But Mr. Lincoln surprised him still further in taking him by the arm. Turning to the young reporter, Mr. Hill, who had finished his writing, he said:
"Bob, a little air will do you good. I've had enough of the old boys for a while, and I'm going to talk to somebody any own age."
Stephen was halfway down the corridor when he discovered that he had forgotten his hat. As he returned he heard somebody say:
"If that ain't just like Abe. He stopped to pull a flea out of his stocking when he was going to fight that duel with Shields, and now he's walking with boys before a debate with the smartest man in this country. And there's heaps of things he ought to discuss with us."
"Reckon we haven't got much to do with it," said another, half laughing, half rueful. "There's some things Abe won't stand."
From the stairs Stephen saw Mr. Lincoln threading his way through the crowd below, laughing at one, pausing to lay his hand on the shoulder of another, and replying to a rough sally of a third to make the place a tumult of guffaws. But none had the temerity to follow him. When Stephen caught up with him in the little country street, he was talking earnestly to Mr. Hill, the young reporter of the Press and Tribune. And what do you think was the subject? The red comet in the sky that night. Stephen kept pace in silence with Mr. Lincoln's strides, another shock in store for him. This rail-splitter, this postmaster, this flat-boatman, whom he had not credited with a knowledge of the New Code, was talking Astronomy. And strange to say, Mr. Brice was learning.
"Bob," said Mr. Lincoln, "can you elucidate the problem of the three bodies?"
To Stephen's surprise, Mr. Hill elucidated.
The talk then fell upon novels and stories, a few of which Mr. Lincoln seemed to have read. He spoke, among others, of the "Gold Bug." "The story is grand," said he, "but it might as well have been written of Robinson Crusoe's island. What a fellow wants in a book is to know where he is. There are not many novels, or ancient works for that matter, that put you down anywhere."
"There is that genuine fragment which Cicero has preserved from a last work of Aristotle," said Mr. Hill, slyly. "'If there were beings who lived in the depths of the earth, and could emerge through the open fissures, and could suddenly behold the earth, the sea, and the--vault of heaven--'"
"But you--you impostor," cried Mr. Lincoln, interrupting, "you're giving us Humboldt's Cosmos."
Mr. Hill owned up, laughing.
It is remarkable how soon we accustom ourselves to a strange situation. And to Stephen it was no less strange to be walking over a muddy road of the prairie with this most singular man and a newspaper correspondent, than it might have been to the sub-terrestrial inhabitant to emerge on the earth's surface. Stephen's mind was in the process of a chemical change: Suddenly it seemed to him as if he had known this tall Illinoisan always. The whim of the senatorial candidate in choosing him for a companion he did not then try to account for.
"Come, Mr. Stephen," said Mr. Lincoln, presently, "where do you hail from?"
"Boston," said Stephen.
"No!" said Mr. Lincoln, incredulously. "And how does it happen that you come to me with a message from a rank Abolitionist lawyer in St. Louis?"
"Is the Judge a friend of yours, sir?" Stephen asked.
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Lincoln, "didn't he tell you he was?"
"He said nothing at all, sir, except to tell me to travel until I found you."
"I call the Judge a friend of mine," said Mr. Lincoln. "He may not claim me because I do not believe in putting all slave-owners to the sword."
"I do not think that Judge Whipple is precisely an Abolitionist, sir."
"What! And how do you feel, Mr. Stephen?"
Stephen replied in figures. It was rare with him, and he must have caught it from Mr. Lincoln.
"I am not for ripping out the dam suddenly, sir, that would drown the nation. I believe that the water can be drained off in some other way."
Mr. Lincoln's direct answer to this was to give Stephen stinging slap between the shoulder-blades.
"God bless the boy!" he cried. "He has thought it out. Bob, take that down for the Press and Tribune as coming from a rising young politician of St. Louis."
"Why," Stephen blurted out, "I--I thought you were an Abolitionist, Mr. Lincoln."
"Mr. Brice," said Mr. Lincoln, "I have as much use for the Boston Liberator as I have for the Charleston Courier. You may guess how much that is. The question is not whether we shall or shall not have slavery, but whether slavery shall stay where it is, or be extended according to Judge Douglas's ingenious plan. The Judge is for breeding worms. I am for cauterizing the sore so that it shall not spread. But I tell you, Mr. Brice, that this nation cannot exist half slave and half free."
Was it the slap on the back that opened Stephen's eyes? It was certain that as they returned to the tavern the man at his side was changed. He need not have felt chagrined. Men in high places underestimated Lincoln, or did not estimate him at all. Affection came first. The great warm heart had claimed Stephen as it claimed all who came near it.
The tavern was deserted save for a few stragglers. Under the dim light at the bar Mr. Lincoln took off his hat and drew the Judge's letter from the lining.
"Mr. Stephen," said he, "would you like to come to Freeport with me to-morrow and hear the debate?"
An hour earlier he would have declined with thanks. But now! Now his face lighted at the prospect, and suddenly fell again. Mr. Lincoln guessed the cause. He laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, and laughed.
"I reckon you're thinking of what the Judge will say."
Stephen smiled.