“Look here, Steve,” said he, “you know a parlor from a drawing-room.  What did you think of me when you saw me to-night?”

Stephen blushed furiously, and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.

“I’ll tell you,” said Mr. Lincoln, with his characteristic smile, “you thought that you wouldn’t pick me out of a bunch of horses to race with the Senator.”

CHAPTER IV

THE QUESTION

Many times since Abraham Lincoln has been called to that mansion which God has reserved for the patriots who have served Him also, Stephen Brice has thought of that steaming night in the low-ceiled room of the country tavern, reeking with the smell of coarse food and hot humanity.  He remembers vividly how at first his gorge rose, and recalls how gradually there crept over him a forgetfulness of the squalidity and discomfort.  Then came a space gray with puzzling wonder.  Then the dawning of a worship for a very ugly man in a rumpled and ill-made coat.

You will perceive that there was hope for Stephen.  On his shake-down that night, oblivious to the snores of his companions and the droning of the insects, he lay awake.  And before his eyes was that strange, marked face, with its deep lines that blended both humor and sadness there.  It was homely, and yet Stephen found himself reflecting that honesty was just as homely, and plain truth.  And yet both were beautiful to those who had learned to love them.  Just so this Mr. Lincoln.

He fell asleep wondering why Judge Whipple had sent him.

It was in accord with nature that reaction came with the morning.  Such a morning, and such a place!

He was awakened, shivering, by the beat of rain on the roof, and stumbling over the prostrate forms of the four Beaver brothers, reached the window.  Clouds filled the sky, and Joshway, whose pallet was under the sill, was in a blessed state of moisture.

No wonder some of his enthusiasm had trickled away!

He made his toilet in the wet under the pump outside; where he had to wait his turn.  And he rather wished he were going back to St. Louis.  He had an early breakfast of fried eggs and underdone bacon, and coffee which made him pine for Hester’s.  The dishes were neither too clean nor too plentiful, being doused in water as soon as ever they were out of use.

But after breakfast the sun came out, and a crowd collected around the tavern, although the air was chill and the muck deep in the street.  Stephen caught glimpses of Mr. Lincoln towering above the knots of country politicians who surrounded him, and every once in a while a knot would double up with laughter.  There was no sign that the senatorial aspirant took the situation seriously; that the coming struggle with his skilful antagonist was weighing him down in the least.  Stephen held aloof from the groups, thinking that Mr. Lincoln had forgotten him.  He decided to leave for St. Louis on the morning train, and was even pushing toward the tavern entrance with his bag in his hand, when he was met by Mr. Hill.