“Now there was an ugly galoot whose name isn’t worth mentioning.  He knew he wasn’t in any way fit for Sue, and he liked pears about as well as Jim Rickets.  Well, one night here comes Jim along the road, whistling; to court Susan, and there was the ugly galoot a-yearning on the bank under the pear tree.  Jim was all fixed up, and he says to the galoot, ’Let’s have a throw.’  Now the galoot knew old Bell was looking over the fence So he says, ‘All right,’ and he gives Jim the first shot—­Jim fetched down the big pear, got his teeth in it, and strolled off to the house, kind of pitiful of the galoot for a, half-witted ass.  When he got to the door, there was the old man.  ‘What are you here for?’ says he.  ‘Why,’ says Rickets, in his off-hand way, for he always had great confidence, ’to fetch Sue.’”

“The old man used to wear brass toes to keep his boots from wearing out,” said Mr. Lincoln, dreamily.

“You see,” continued Mr. Lincoln, “you see the galoot knew that Jim Rickets wasn’t to be trusted with Susan Bell.”

Some of the gentlemen appeared to see the point of this political parable, for they laughed uproariously.  The others laughed, too.  Then they slapped their knees, looked at Mr. Lincoln’s face, which was perfectly sober, and laughed again, a little fainter.  Then the Judge looked as solemn as his title.

“It won’t do, Abe,” said he.  “You commit suicide.”

“You’d better stick to the pear, Abe,” said Mr. Medill, “and fight Stephen A. Douglas here and now.  This isn’t any picnic.  Do you know who he is?”

“Why, yes, Joe,” said Mr. Lincoln, amiably.  “He’s a man with tens of thousands of blind followers.  It’s my business to make some of those blind followers see.”

By this time Stephen was burning to know the question that Mr. Lincoln wished to ask the Little Giant, and why the other gentlemen were against it.  But Mr. Lincoln surprised him still further in taking him by the arm.  Turning to the young reporter, Mr. Hill, who had finished his writing, he said: 

“Bob, a little air will do you good.  I’ve had enough of the old boys for a while, and I’m going to talk to somebody any own age.”

Stephen was halfway down the corridor when he discovered that he had forgotten his hat.  As he returned he heard somebody say: 

“If that ain’t just like Abe.  He stopped to pull a flea out of his stocking when he was going to fight that duel with Shields, and now he’s walking with boys before a debate with the smartest man in this country.  And there’s heaps of things he ought to discuss with us.”

“Reckon we haven’t got much to do with it,” said another, half laughing, half rueful.  “There’s some things Abe won’t stand.”