'll be here, tonight--"

"Yes," said Stephen, wearily. And he added, outs of force of habit, "Can
you give me a room?"

"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