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That same Thursday, when the first families of the city were whispering jubilantly in each other’s ears of the safe arrival of the artillery and stands of arms at Camp Jackson, something of significance was happening within the green inclosure of the walls of the United States arsenal, far to the southward.

The days had become alike in sadness to Stephen.  Richter gone, and the Judge often away in mysterious conference, he was left for hours at a spell the sole tenant of the office.  Fortunately there was work of Richter’s and of Mr. Whipple’s left undone that kept him busy.  This Thursday morning, however, he found the Judge getting into that best black coat which he wore on occasions.  His manner had recently lost much of its gruffness.

“Stephen,” said he, “they are serving out cartridges and uniforms to the regiments at the arsenal.  Would you like to go down with me?”

“Does that mean Camp Jackson?” asked Stephen, when they had reached the street.

“Captain Lyon is not the man to sit still and let the Governor take the first trick, sir,” said the Judge.

As they got on the Fifth Street car, Stephen’s attention was at once attracted to a gentleman who sat in a corner, with his children about him.  He was lean, and he had a face of great keenness and animation.  He had no sooner spied Judge Whipple than he beckoned to him with a kind of military abruptness.

“That is Major William T. Sherman,” said the Judge to Stephen.  “He used to be in the army, and fought in the Mexican War.  He came here two months ago to be the President of this Fifth Street car line.”

They crossed over to him, the Judge introducing Stephen to Major Sherman, who looked at him very hard, and then decided to bestow on him a vigorous nod.

“Well, Whipple,” he said, “this nation is going to the devil; eh?”

Stephen could not resist a smile.  For it was a bold man who expressed radical opinions (provided they were not Southern opinions) in a St. Louis street car early in ’61.

The Judge shook his head.  “We may pull out,” he said.

“Pull out!” exclaimed Mr. Sherman.  “Who’s man enough in Washington to shake his fist in a rebel’s face?  Our leniency—­our timidity—­has paralyzed us, sir.”

By this time those in the car began to manifest considerable interest in the conversation.  Major Sherman paid them no attention, and the Judge, once launched in an argument, forgot his surroundings.

“I have faith in Mr. Lincoln.  He is calling out volunteers.”

“Seventy-five thousand for three months!” said the Major, vehemently, “a bucketful on a conflagration I tell you, Whipple, we’ll need all the water we’ve got in the North.”

The Judge expressed his belief in this, and also that Mr. Lincoln would draw all the water before he got through.

“Upon my soul,” said Mr. Sherman, “I’m disgusted.  Now’s the time to stop ’em.  The longer we let ’em rear and kick, the harder to break ’em.  You don’t catch me going back to the army for three months.  If they want me, they’ve got to guarantee me three years.  That’s more like it.”  Turning to Stephen, he added:  “Don’t you sign any three months’ contract, young man.”