How the light of Mr. Seward’s hope went out after the first ballot, and how some of the gentlemen attached to his person wept; and how the voices shook the Wigwam, and the thunder of the guns rolled over the tossing water of the lake, many now living remember.  That day a name was delivered to the world through the mouths political schemers which was destined to enter history that of the saviour of the Nation.

Down in little Springfield, on a vacant lot near the station, a tall man in his shirt sleeves was playing barn-ball with some boys.  The game finished, he had put on his black coat and was starting homeward under the tree—­when a fleet youngster darted after him with a telegram.  The tall man read it, and continued on his walk his head bent and his feet taking long strides, Later in the day he was met by a friend.

“Abe,” said the friend, “I’m almighty glad there somebody in this town’s got notorious at last.”

In the early morning of their return from Chicago Judge Whipple and Stephen were standing in the front of a ferry-boat crossing the Mississippi.  The sun was behind them.  The Judge had taken off his hat, and his gray hair was stirred by the river breeze.  Illness had set a yellow seal on the face, but the younger man remarked it not.  For Stephen, staring at the black blur of the city outline, was filled with a strange exaltation which might have belonged to his Puritan forefathers.  Now at length was come his chance to be of use in life,—­to dedicate the labor of his hands and of his brains to Abraham Lincoln uncouth prophet of the West.  With all his might he would work to save the city for the man who was the hope of the Union.

The bell rang.  The great paddles scattered the brow waters with white foam, and the Judge voiced his thoughts.

“Stephen,” said he, “I guess we’ll have to put on shoulders to the wheel this summer.  If Lincoln is not elected I have lived my sixty-five years for nothing.”

As he descended the plank, he laid a hand on Stephen’s arm, and tottered.  The big Louisiana, Captain Brent’s boat, just in from New Orleans, was blowing off her steam as with slow steps they climbed the levee and the steep pitch of the street beyond it.  The clatter of hooves and the crack of whips reached their ears, and, like many others before them and since, they stepped into Carvel & Company’s.  On the inside of the glass partition of the private office, a voice of great suavity was heard.  It was Eliphalet Hopper’s.

“If you will give me the numbers of the bales, Captain Brent, I’ll send a dray down to your boat and get them.”

It was a very decisive voice that answered.

“No, sir, I prefer to do business with my friend, Colonel Carvel.  I guess I can wait.”

“I could sell the goods to Texas buyers who are here in the store right now.”

“Until I get instructions from one of the concern,” vowed Captain Lige, “I shall do as I always have done, sir.  What is your position here, Mr. Hopper?”