“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.