“I reckon,” was the cheerful reply.  “Number ten, There ain’t nobody in there but Ben Billings, and the four Beaver brothers, an’ three more.  I’ll have a shake-down for ye next the north window.”

Stephen’s thanks for the hospitality perhaps lacked heartiness.  But perceiving his host still contemplating him, he was emboldened to say: 

“Has Mr. Lincoln gone to bed?”

“Who?  Old Abe, at half-past ten?  Wal I reckon you don’t know him.”

Stephen’s reflections here on the dignity of the Senatorial candidate of the Republican Party in Illinois were novel, at any rate.  He thought of certain senators he had seen in Massachusetts.

“The only reason he ain’t down here swappin’ yarns with the boys, is because he’s havin’ some sort of confab with the Jedge and Joe Medill of the ‘Chicagy Press’ and ’Tribune’.”

“Do you think he would see me?” asked Stephen, eagerly.  He was emboldened by the apparent lack of ceremony of the candidate.  The landlord looked at him in some surprise.

“Wal, I reckon.  Jest go up an’ knock at the door number seven, and say Tom Wright sent ye.”

“How shall I know Mr. Lincoln?” asked Stephen.

“Pick out the ugliest man in the room.  There ain’t nobody I kin think of uglier than Abe.”

Bearing in mind this succinct description of the candidate, Stephen climbed the rickety stairs to the low second story.  All the bedroom doors were flung open except one, on which the number 7 was inscribed.  From within came bursts of uproarious laughter, and a summons to enter.

He pushed open the door, and as soon as his eyes became, accustomed to the tobacco smoke, he surveyed the room.  There was a bowl on the floor, the chair where it belonged being occupied.  There was a very inhospitable looking bed, two shake-downs, and four Windsor chairs in more or less state of dilapidation—­all occupied likewise.  A country glass lamp was balanced on a rough shelf, and under it a young man sat absorbed in making notes, and apparently oblivious to the noise around him.  Every gentleman in the room was collarless, coatless, tieless, and vestless.  Some were engaged in fighting gnats and June bugs, while others battled with mosquitoes—­all save the young man who wrote, he being wholly indifferent.

Stephen picked out the homeliest man in the room.  There was no mistaking him.  And, instead of a discussion of the campaign with the other gentlemen, Mr. Lincoln was defending what do you think?  Mr. Lincoln was defending an occasional and judicious use of swear words.

“Judge,” said he, “you do an almighty lot of cussing in your speeches, and perhaps it ain’t a bad way to keep things stirred up.”

“Well,” said the Judge, “a fellow will rip out something once in a while before he has time to shut it off.”

Mr. Lincoln passed his fingers through his tousled hair.  His thick lower lip crept over in front of the upper one, A gleam stirred in the deep-set gray eyes.