Part 28 (1/2)

It was Mr. Lincoln who brought him back. The astonis.h.i.+ng candidate for the Senate had sunk into his chair, his face relaxed into sadness save for the sparkle lurking in the eyes. So he sat, immobile, until the laughter had died down to silence. Then he turned to Stephen.

”Sonny,” he said, ”did you want to see me?”

Stephen was determined to be affable and kind, and (shall we say it?) he would not make Mr. Lincoln uncomfortable either by a superiority of English or the certain frigidity of manner which people in the West said he had. But he tried to imagine a Ma.s.sachusetts senator, Mr. Sumner, for instance, going through the rat story, and couldn't. Somehow, Ma.s.sachusetts senators hadn't this gift. And yet he was not quite sure that it wasn't a fetching gift. Stephen did not quite like to be called ”Sonny.” But he looked into two gray eyes, and at the face, and something curious happened to him. How was he to know that thousands of his countrymen were to experience the same sensation?

”Sonny,” said Mr. Lincoln again, ”did you want to see me?”

”Yes, sir.” Stephen wondered at the ”sir.” It had been involuntary. He drew from his inner pocket the envelope which the Judge had given him.

Mr. Lincoln ripped it open. A doc.u.ment fell out, and a letter. He put the doc.u.ment in his tall hat, which was upside down on the floor. As he got deeper into the letter, he pursed his mouth, and the lines of his face deepened in a smile. Then he looked up, grave again.

”Judge Whipple told you to run till you found me, did he, Mr. Brice?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Is the Judge the same old criss-cross, contrary, violent fool that he always was?”

Providence put an answer in Stephen's mouth.

”He's been very good to me, Mr. Lincoln.”

Mr. Lincoln broke into laughter.

”Why, he's the biggest-hearted man I know. You know him, Oglesby,--Silas Whipple. But a man has to be a Daniel or a General Putnam to venture into that den of his. There's only one man in the world who can beard Silas, and he's the finest states-right Southern gentleman you ever saw.

I mean Colonel Carvel. You've heard of him, Oglesby. Don't they quarrel once in a while, Mr. Brice?”

”They do have occasional arguments,” said Stephen, amused.

”Arguments!” cried Mr. Lincoln; ”well, I couldn't come as near to fighting every day and stand it. If my dog and Bill's dog across the street walked around each other and growled for half a day, and then lay down together, as Carvel and Whipple do, by Jing, I'd put pepper on their noses--”

”I reckon Colonel Carvel isn't a fighting man,” said some one, at random.

Strangely enough, Stephen was seized with a desire to vindicate the Colonel's courage. Both Mr. Lincoln and Judge Oglesby forestalled him.

”Not a fighting man!” exclaimed the Judge. ”Why, the other day--”

”Now, Oglesby,” put in Mr. Lincoln, ”I wanted to tell that story.”

Stephen had heard it, and so have we. But Mr. Lincoln's imitation of the Colonel's drawl brought him a pang like homesickness.

”'No, suh, I didn't intend to shoot. Not if he had gone off straight.

But he wriggled and twisted like a rattlesnake, and I just couldn't resist, suh. Then I sent m'n.i.g.g.e.r Ephum to tell him not to let me catch sight of him 'round the Planters' House. Yes, suh, that's what he was.

One of these d.a.m.ned Yankees who come South and go into n.i.g.g.e.r-deals and politics.”'

Mr. Lincoln glanced at Stephen, and then again at the Judge's letter. He took up his silk hat and thrust that, too, into the worn lining, which was already filled with papers. He clapped the hat on his head, and b.u.t.toned on his collar.

”I reckon I'll go for a walk, boys,” he said, ”and clear my head, so as to be ready for the Little Giant to-morrow at Freeport. Mr. Brice, do you feel like walking?”

Stephen, taken aback, said that he did.

”Now, Abe, this is just durned foolishness,” one of the gentlemen expostulated. ”We want to know if you're going to ask Douglas that question.”