Lincoln drew his old watch from his pocket, loosed it from the chain and seals. “I don’t have a solid gold watch. This old turnip is sort of worn. I guess I timed too many speeches and juries with it. But you’re not big enough for a watch, Tad. Not till you can wear a vest and have enough stomach to hold up a chain.”
“Willie had a vest and he wasn’t so very much bigger than me,” argued Tad.
A shadow of pain ran over his father’s gaunt face and the tears, always quick when any emotion stirred him, were bright in his sunken eyes. The agony of Willie’s untimely death was still raw and aching in his heart.
“Willie was twelve years old, Tad. When you are twelve you can have a vest.”
“And a watch?”
“And a watch. Not this one.” Lincoln clicked the fastening of the bright new timepiece and dropped it into his pocket, along with the key that wound it. “I guess Bob will have to have this old one. Bob’s a man now and a man needs a watch.”
“He thinks he’s a man just because he can shave,” Tad scoffed. He studied his father’s face for a moment. “Why did you grow a beard, Papa? You didn’t have a beard when I was a little boy.”
“You’re still a little boy, fellow.” Lincoln gave him a poke in ribs. “Maybe I raised these whiskers because a little girl in New York asked me to. Maybe I just did it to keep my chin warm.”
“All Bob has is little patches in front of his ears. They look silly.”
Lincoln lifted his long body erect and walked to the window.