That was a poser.

“I think he is, Mr. Lincoln.  I should like to call him so.  I admire him.”  And I went on to tell of what he had done at Vicksburg, leaving out, however, my instrumentality in having him sent north.  The President used almost Sherman’s words.

“By Jing!” he exclaimed. (That seems to be a favorite expression of his.) “Those fellows were born to fight.  If it wasn’t for them, the South would have quit long ago.”  Then he looked at me in his funny way, and said, “See here, Steve, if this Colfax isn’t exactly a friend of yours, there must be some reason why you are pleading for him in this way.”

“Well, sir,” I said, at length, “I should like to get him off on account of his cousin, Miss Virginia Carvel.”  And I told him something about Miss Carvel, and how she had helped you with the Union sergeant that day in the hot hospital.  And how she had nursed Judge Whipple.”

“She’s a fine woman,” he said.  “Those women have helped those men to prolong this war about three years.

“And yet we must save them for the nation’s sake.  They are to be the mothers of our patriots in days to come.  Is she a friend of yours, too, Steve?”

What was I to say?

“Not especially, sir,” I answered finally.  I have had to offend her rather often.  But I know that she likes my mother.”

“Why!” he cried, jumping up, “she’s a daughter of Colonel Carvel.  I always had an admiration for that man.  An ideal Southern gentleman of the old school,—­courteous, as honorable and open as the day, and as brave as a lion.  You’ve heard the story of how he threw a man named Babcock out of his store, who tried to bribe him?”

“I heard you tell it in that tavern, sir.  And I have heard it since.”  It did me good to hear the Colonel praised.

“I always liked that story,” he said.  “By the way, what’s become of the Colonel?”

“He got away—­South, sir,” I answered.  “He couldn’t stand it.  He hasn’t been heard of since the summer of ’63.  They think he was killed in Texas.  But they are not positive.  They probably never will be,” I added.  He was silent awhile.

“Too bad!” he said.  “Too bad.  What stuff those men are made of!  And so you want me to pardon this Colfax?”

“It would be presumptuous in me to go that far, sir,” I replied.  “But I hoped you might speak of it to the General when he comes.  And I would be glad of the opportunity to testify.”

He took a few strides up and down the room.

“Well, well,” he said, “that’s my vice—­pardoning, saying yes.  It’s always one more drink with me.  It—­” he smiled—­“it makes me sleep better.  I’ve pardoned enough Rebels to populate New Orleans.  Why,” he continued, with his whimsical look, “just before I left Washington, in comes one of your Missouri senators with a list of Rebels who are shut up in McDowell’s and Alton.  I said:—­ “’Senator, you’re not going to ask me to turn loose all those at once?’