“I am very sorry, sir,” replied Joseph. “But it is quite out of the question. Even if I wished to lower myself by an appeal to him and if I were criminal enough to let you go to the war, any request of mine to Lincoln would be refused.
“He is a politician. And politicians have long memories. You seem to forget that I was chairman of the reception committee when Douglas spoke here in Ideala last year. My request would be refused; even if it chanced to pass the red-tape barriers and reach the President.
“Moreover, I would not do such a thing as to send an old man into the ardors of a campaign. Even such a short campaign as this, from all the surface evidence, will very likely be.”
“I am not an old man. Zach Taylor won the Mexican war when he was years older than I am. Oh, son, I want to do something for my country!” The man’s voice almost broke in his cry of appeal.
Joseph glanced critically at the pleading eyes beneath the disheveled thatch of whitening hair.
“Do you really want to do something for your country?” he asked, as though arguing with a stupid schoolboy. “Then I’ll tell you how you can best do it. I am forced to go away. I must leave my wife and son with no guardian or protector but yourself. By helping me you can help your country.
“Stay here and take care of them. That will enable me to go to my duty with a free mind and to keep my mind on the needs of the nation instead of fearing always that some trouble may befall my dear ones.”
“But,” protested Dad, “you said you looked on this just as a business venture, and—”
“I spoke lightly. As you guessed, to avoid praise for what is only my clear duty.”
“Oh, I’m glad. But—”