"Stephen," said the Judge (here the surprise came in), "Stephen, what do you think of Mr. Lincoln's chances for the Republican nomination?"
"We hear of no name but Seward's, sir," said Stephen, When he had recovered.
The Judge grunted.
"Do you think that Lincoln would make a good President?" he added.
"I have thought so, sir, ever since you were good enough to give me the opportunity of knowing him."
It was a bold speech--the Judge drew his great eyebrows together, but he spoke to Mrs. Brice.
"I'm not as strong as I was once, ma'am," said he. "And yet I am going to that Chicago convention."
Mrs. Brice remonstrated mildly, to the effect that he had done his share of political work. He scarcely waited for her to finish.
"I shall take a younger man with me, in case anything happens. In fact, ma'am, I had thought of taking your son, if you can spare him."
And so it was that Stephen went to that most dramatic of political gatherings,--in the historic Wigwam. It was so that his eyes were opened to the view of the monster which maims the vitality of the Republic,--the political machine. Mr. Seward had brought his machine from New York,--a legion prepared to fill the Wigwam with their bodies, and to drown with their cries all names save that of their master.
Stephen indeed had his eyes opened. Through the kindness of Judge Whipple he heard many quiet talks between that gentleman and delegates from other states--Pennsylvania and Illinois and Indiana and elsewhere. He perceived that the Judge was no nonentity in this new party. Mr. Whipple sat in his own room, and the delegates came and ranged themselves along the bed. Late one night, when the delegates were gone, Stephen ventured to speak what was in his mind.
"Mr. Lincoln did not strike me as the kind of man, sir; who would permit a bargain."
"Mr. Lincoln's at home playing barn-ball," said the Judge, curtly. "He doesn't expect the nomination."
"Then," said Stephen, rather hotly, "I think you are unfair to him."
You are expecting the Judge to thunder. Sometimes he liked this kind of speech.
"Stephen, I hope that politics may be a little cleaner when you become a delegate," he answered, with just the suspicion of a smile. "Supposing you are convinced that Abraham Lincoln is the only man who can save the Union, and supposing that the one way to get him nominated is to meet Seward's gang with their own methods, what would you do, sir? I want a practical proposition, sir," said Mr. Whipple, "one that we can use to-night. It is now one 'clock."
As Stephen was silent, the Judge advised him to go to bed. And the next morning, while Mr. Seward's henchmen, confident and uproarious, were parading the streets of Chicago with their bands and their bunting, the vast Wigwam was quietly filling up with bony Westerners whose ally was none other than the state of Pennsylvania. These gentlemen possessed wind which they had not wasted in processions. And the Lord delivered Seward and all that was his into their hands.
How the light of Mr. Seward's hope went out after the first ballot, and how some of the gentlemen attached to his person wept; and how the voices shook the Wigwam, and the thunder of the guns rolled over the tossing water of the lake, many now living remember. That day a name was delivered to the world through the mouths political schemers which was destined to enter history that of the saviour of the Nation.
Down in little Springfield, on a vacant lot near the station, a tall man in his shirt sleeves was playing barn-ball with some boys. The game finished, he had put on his black coat and was starting homeward under the tree--when a fleet youngster darted after him with a telegram. The tall man read it, and continued on his walk his head bent and his feet taking long strides, Later in the day he was met by a friend.
"Abe," said the friend, "I'm almighty glad there somebody in this town's got notorious at last."
In the early morning of their return from Chicago Judge Whipple and Stephen were standing in the front of a ferry-boat crossing the Mississippi. The sun was behind them. The Judge had taken off his hat, and his gray hair was stirred by the river breeze. Illness had set a yellow seal on the face, but the younger man remarked it not. For Stephen, staring at the black blur of the city outline, was filled with a strange exaltation which might have belonged to his Puritan forefathers. Now at length was come his chance to be of use in life,--to dedicate the labor of his hands and of his brains to Abraham Lincoln uncouth prophet of the West. With all his might he would work to save the city for the man who was the hope of the Union.
The bell rang. The great paddles scattered the brow waters with white foam, and the Judge voiced his thoughts.
"Stephen," said he, "I guess we'll have to put on shoulders to the wheel this summer. If Lincoln is not elected I have lived my sixty-five years for nothing."
As he descended the plank, he laid a hand on Stephen's arm, and tottered. The big Louisiana, Captain Brent's boat, just in from New Orleans, was blowing off her steam as with slow steps they climbed the levee and the steep pitch of the street beyond it. The clatter of hooves and the crack of whips reached their ears, and, like many others before them and since, they stepped into Carvel & Company's. On the inside of the glass partition of the private office, a voice of great suavity was heard. It was Eliphalet Hopper's.
"If you will give me the numbers of the bales, Captain Brent, I'll send a dray down to your boat and get them."
It was a very decisive voice that answered.
"No, sir, I prefer to do business with my friend, Colonel Carvel. I guess I can wait."
"I could sell the goods to Texas buyers who are here in the store right now."
"Until I get instructions from one of the concern," vowed Captain Lige, "I shall do as I always have done, sir. What is your position here, Mr. Hopper?"
"I am manager, I callate."
The Captain's fist was heard to come down on the desk.
"You don't manage me," he said, "and I reckon you don't manage the Colonel."
Mr. Hopper's face was not pleasant to see as he emerged. But at sight of Judge Whipple on the steps his suavity returned.
"The Colonel will be in any minute, sir," said he.
But the Judge walked past him without reply, and into the office. Captain Brent, seeing him; sprang to his feet.
"Well, well, Judge," said he, heartily, "you fellows have done it now, sure. I'll say this for you, you've picked a smart man."
"Better vote for him, Lige," said the Judge, setting down.
The Captain smiled at Stephen.
"A man's got a lot of choice this year;" said he. "Two governments, thirty-three governments, one government patched up for a year ox two."
"Or no government," finished the Judge. "Lige, you're not such a fool as to vote against the Union?"
"Judge," said the Captain, instantly, "I'm not the only one in this town who will have to decide whether my sympathies are wrong. My sympathies are with the South."
"It's not a question of sympathy, Captain," answered the Judge, dryly. "Abraham Lincoln himself was born in Kentucky."
They had not heard a step without.
"Gentlemen,