Part 30 (1/2)
Now, Steve, just give me a notion how politics are over in St. Louis.
What do they think of our new Republican party? Too bran new for old St.
Louis, eh?”
Stephen saw expostulation in Mr. Medill's eyes, and hesitated. And Mr.
Lincoln seemed to feel Medill's objections, as by mental telepathy. But he said:-- ”We'll come to that little matter later, Joe, when the cars start.”
Naturally, Stephen began uneasily. But under the influence of that kindly eye he thawed, and forgot himself. He felt that this man was not one to feign an interest. The shouts of the people on the little platform interrupted the account, and the engine staggered off with its load.
”I reckon St. Louis is a nest of Southern Democrats,” Mr. Lincoln remarked, ”and not much opposition.”
”There are quite a few Old Line Whigs, sir,” ventured Stephen, smiling.
”Joe,” said Mr. Lincoln, ”did you ever hear Warfield's definition of an Old Line Whig?”
Mr. Medill had not.
”A man who takes his toddy regularly, and votes the Democratic ticket occasionally, and who wears ruffled s.h.i.+rts.”
Both of these gentlemen laughed, and two more in the seat behind, who had an ear to the conversation.
”But, sir,” said Stephen, seeing that he was expected to go on, ”I think that the Republican party will gather a considerable strength there in another year or two. We have the material for powerful leaders in Mr.
Blair and others” (Mr. Lincoln nodded at the name). ”We are getting an ever increasing population from New England, mostly of young men who will take kindly to the new party.” And then he added, thinking of his pilgrimage the Sunday before: ”South St. Louis is a solid ma.s.s of Germans, who are all antislavery. But they are very foreign still, and have all their German inst.i.tutions.”
”The Turner Halls?” Mr. Lincoln surprised him by inquiring.
”Yes. And I believe that they drill there.”
”Then they will the more easily be turned into soldiers if the time should come,” said Mr. Lincoln. And he added quickly, ”I pray that it may not.”
Stephen had cause to remember that observation, and the ac.u.men it showed, long afterward.
The train made several stops, and at each of them shoals of country people filled the aisles, and paused for a most familiar chat with the senatorial candidate. Many called him Abe. His appearance was the equal in roughness to theirs, his manner if anything was more democratic,--yet in spite of all this Stephen in them detected a deference which might almost be termed a homage. There were many women among them. Had our friend been older, he might have known that the presence of good women in a political crowd portends something. As it was, he was surprised. He was destined to be still more surprised that day.
When they had left behind them the shouts of the little down of Dixon, Mr. Lincoln took off his hat, and produced a crumpled and not too immaculate sc.r.a.p of paper from the mult.i.tude therein.
”Now, Joe,” said he, ”here are the four questions I intend to ask Judge Douglas. I am ready for you. Fire away.”
”We don't care anything about the others,” answered Mr. Medill. ”But I tell you this. If you ask that second one, you'll never see the United States Senate.”
”And the Republican party in this state will have had a blow from which it can scarcely recover,” added Mr. Judd, chairman of the committee.
Mr. Lincoln did not appear to hear them. His eyes were far away over the wet prairie.
Stephen held his breath. But neither he, nor Medill, nor Judd, nor Hill guessed at the pregnancy of that moment. How were they to know that the fate of the United States of America was concealed in that Question,--was to be decided on a rough wooden platform that day in the town of Freeport, Illinois?
But Abraham Lincoln, the uncouth man in the linen duster with the tousled hair, knew it. And the stone that was rejected of the builders was to become the corner-stone of the temple.
Suddenly Mr. Lincoln recalled himself, glanced at the paper, and cleared his throat. In measured tones, plainly heard above the rush and roar of the train, he read the Question: