Vandalia had promised to bring to Illinois.
They left their horses at the public stable. The stableman greeted Lincoln like a favored nephew and in a sly, sarcastic tone of voice demanded to know whether he had been corrupted yet by the toad-eating man grannies he had been keeping company with in the legislature.
They walked out onto the street, where Lincoln waylaid a young boy and asked him to run off to the Carman house, where he lodged and boarded, and inform Mrs. Carman he was bringing a guest for dinner. The boy took off in a sprint as if it was the most urgent errand ever conceived. It was late afternoon. Women were walking home from the shops and men were drifting into the groceries, but it seemed there wasn’t a citizen of New Salem who didn’t make a point of stopping what they were in the midst of doing to speak to Abe Lincoln. The men lectured him about the Little Bull Law and warned him by God sir to hold the line against Van Buren and his preposterous idea of Negro suffrage. The women fussed over him and offered to feed him themselves if Mrs. Carman couldn’t seem to put any meat on his bones. They told him to please comb his hair every now and then and to make sure the next time he had a suit made to have somebody measure his arms.
Lincoln introduced Cage, and the New Salemites greeted him cordially enough, but he felt unseen beside his towering, interesting new friend. Someone named Mrs. Abell came running up to Lincoln and grabbed him by his arm and told him she’d just had a letter from her sister.
“She remembers you!”
“Well, I remember her.”
“You know what I mean. She
asked
about you!”
She turned her head briefly to Cage, curious about who he was but not curious enough to allow Lincoln to say more than “This is my friend from—” before whipping her head around again and staring up into Lincoln’s face.
“I’m going to Kentucky soon. Do you want me to bring her back?”
“Bring her back?”
“Don’t pretend to be stupid, Abe,” Mrs. Abell said. She had a sharp, impatient expression. “Do you want me to bring her here or not?”
“Well, I guess you better.”
“It’s a long way to come for nothing. You understand that?”
Lincoln nodded in a dazed sort of way.
“I’ll write her, then. I’ll write her and tell her that you’ll be writing her.” She looked at him sternly again. “Which means you
will
write her.”
Lincoln agreed that he would. Mrs. Abell smiled, took the liberty of brushing some dust off his sleeve, nodded politely to Cage as if she had actually been patient enough to meet him, and walked off.
“I think I just agreed to marry that woman’s sister,” Lincoln said.
“You did? Did you mean to?”
“Well, I suppose so. To tell you the truth the case puzzles me a little.”
—
“Always reading!” Mr. Carman pronounced at the dinner table for Cage’s benefit. “He reads thoroughly and never forgets it, don’t you, Abe?”
“Well, it’s hard to scratch something into my mind, which is about as hard to penetrate as a piece of steel. But once it’s scratched in it’s generally there to stay.”
“A piece of steel!” Mr. Carman repeated approvingly. He was a shoemaker, a reasonably young man still, in his thirties, but nobly bald, and he spoke with such enthusiasm and concentration it was as if the hairs had been sprung out of his head by the force of the thoughts within it.
“ ‘Here’s freedom to him that wad read!’ ” Mr. Carman said, quoting Burns as he raised his glass of homemade Madeira for a toast.
“ ‘Here’s freedom to him that wad write,’ ” Lincoln replied, in an impressive Scottish brogue that suddenly had nothing of Kentucky in it. But he was returning the toast with a glass full of water, and Cage caught the disappointment in Carman’s eye.
“He needs the temperance vote, you see,” the host said to Cage.
“Leave Abe alone, Caleb,” Mrs. Carman said as she bustled nervously as
They left their horses at the public stable. The stableman greeted Lincoln like a favored nephew and in a sly, sarcastic tone of voice demanded to know whether he had been corrupted yet by the toad-eating man grannies he had been keeping company with in the legislature.
They walked out onto the street, where Lincoln waylaid a young boy and asked him to run off to the Carman house, where he lodged and boarded, and inform Mrs. Carman he was bringing a guest for dinner. The boy took off in a sprint as if it was the most urgent errand ever conceived. It was late afternoon. Women were walking home from the shops and men were drifting into the groceries, but it seemed there wasn’t a citizen of New Salem who didn’t make a point of stopping what they were in the midst of doing to speak to Abe Lincoln. The men lectured him about the Little Bull Law and warned him by God sir to hold the line against Van Buren and his preposterous idea of Negro suffrage. The women fussed over him and offered to feed him themselves if Mrs. Carman couldn’t seem to put any meat on his bones. They told him to please comb his hair every now and then and to make sure the next time he had a suit made to have somebody measure his arms.
Lincoln introduced Cage, and the New Salemites greeted him cordially enough, but he felt unseen beside his towering, interesting new friend. Someone named Mrs. Abell came running up to Lincoln and grabbed him by his arm and told him she’d just had a letter from her sister.
“She remembers you!”
“Well, I remember her.”
“You know what I mean. She
asked
about you!”
She turned her head briefly to Cage, curious about who he was but not curious enough to allow Lincoln to say more than “This is my friend from—” before whipping her head around again and staring up into Lincoln’s face.
“I’m going to Kentucky soon. Do you want me to bring her back?”
“Bring her back?”
“Don’t pretend to be stupid, Abe,” Mrs. Abell said. She had a sharp, impatient expression. “Do you want me to bring her here or not?”
“Well, I guess you better.”
“It’s a long way to come for nothing. You understand that?”
Lincoln nodded in a dazed sort of way.
“I’ll write her, then. I’ll write her and tell her that you’ll be writing her.” She looked at him sternly again. “Which means you
will
write her.”
Lincoln agreed that he would. Mrs. Abell smiled, took the liberty of brushing some dust off his sleeve, nodded politely to Cage as if she had actually been patient enough to meet him, and walked off.
“I think I just agreed to marry that woman’s sister,” Lincoln said.
“You did? Did you mean to?”
“Well, I suppose so. To tell you the truth the case puzzles me a little.”
—
“Always reading!” Mr. Carman pronounced at the dinner table for Cage’s benefit. “He reads thoroughly and never forgets it, don’t you, Abe?”
“Well, it’s hard to scratch something into my mind, which is about as hard to penetrate as a piece of steel. But once it’s scratched in it’s generally there to stay.”
“A piece of steel!” Mr. Carman repeated approvingly. He was a shoemaker, a reasonably young man still, in his thirties, but nobly bald, and he spoke with such enthusiasm and concentration it was as if the hairs had been sprung out of his head by the force of the thoughts within it.
“ ‘Here’s freedom to him that wad read!’ ” Mr. Carman said, quoting Burns as he raised his glass of homemade Madeira for a toast.
“ ‘Here’s freedom to him that wad write,’ ” Lincoln replied, in an impressive Scottish brogue that suddenly had nothing of Kentucky in it. But he was returning the toast with a glass full of water, and Cage caught the disappointment in Carman’s eye.
“He needs the temperance vote, you see,” the host said to Cage.
“Leave Abe alone, Caleb,” Mrs. Carman said as she bustled nervously as
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