“Shucks,” said the clerk, “think of him opposing the Little Giant.”

“He’s right smart, Sam,” said the farmer.  “He’s got a way of sayin’ things that’s clear.  We boys can foller him.  But Steve Douglas, he only mixes you up.”

His companion guffawed.

“Because why?” he shouted.  “Because you ain’t had no education:  What does a rail-sputter like Abe know about this government?  Judge Douglas has worked it all out.  He’s smart.  Let the territories take care of themselves.  Besides, Abe ain’t got no dignity.  The fust of this week I seen him side-tracked down the road here in a caboose, while Doug went by in a special.”

“Abe is a plain man, Sam,” the farmer answered solemnly.  “But you watch out for him.”

It was ten o’clock when Stephen descended at his destination.  Merciful night hid from his view the forlorn station and the ragged town.  The baggage man told him that Mr. Lincoln was at the tavern.

That tavern!  Will words describe the impression it made on a certain young man from Boston!  It was long and low and ramshackly and hot that night as the inside of a brick-kiln.  As he drew near it on the single plant walk over the black prairie-mud, he saw countrymen and politicians swarming its narrow porch and narrower hall.  Discussions in all keys were in progress, and it, was with vast difficulty that our distracted young man pushed through and found the landlord, This personage was the coolest of the lot.  Confusion was but food for his smiles, importunity but increased his suavity.  And of the seeming hundreds that pressed him, he knew and utilized the Christian name of all.  From behind a corner of the bar he held them all at bay, and sent them to quarters like the old campaigner he was.

“Now, Ben, tain’t no use gettin’ mad.  You, and Josh way, an’ Will, an’ Sam, an’ the Cap’n, an’ the four Beaver brothers, will all sleep in number ten.  What’s that, Franklin?  No, sirree, the Honerable Abe, and Mister Hill, and Jedge Oglesby is sleepin’ in seven.”  The smell of perspiration was stifling as Stephen pushed up to the master of the situation.  “What’s that?  Supper, young man?  Ain’t you had no supper?  Gosh, I reckon if you can fight your way to the dinin’ room, the gals’ll give you some pork and a cup of coffee.”

After a preliminary scuffle with a drunken countryman in mud-caked boots, Mr. Brice presently reached the long table in the dining-room.  A sense of humor not quite extinct made him smile as he devoured pork chops and greasy potatoes and heavy apple pie.  As he was finishing the pie, he became aware of the tavern keeper standing over him.

“Are you one of them flip Chicagy reporters?” asked that worthy, with a suspicious eye on Stephen’s clothes.

Our friend denied this.

“You didn’t talk jest like ’em.  Guess you’ll be here, tonight—­”

“Yes,” said Stephen, wearily.  And he added, outs of force of habit, “Can you give me a room?”