But the long man had finished his inquiry and rejoined the group by the stove.
“I thought you were a lawyer, Mr. Lincoln,” said Stanton, “but you seem to have the tastes of a mechanic.”
The other grinned. “I've a fancy for any kind of instrument, for I was a surveyor in this county before I took to law.”
“George Washington also was a surveyor.”
“Also, but not likewise. I don't consider I was much of a hand with the compass and chains.”
“It is the fashion in Illinois, I gather, for the law to be the last in a series of many pursuits—the pool where the driftwood from many streams comes to rest.” Mr. Stanton spoke with the superior air of one who took his profession seriously and had been trained for it in the orthodox fashion.
“It was so in my case. I've kept a post-office, and I've had a store, and I've had a tavern, and I kept them so darned bad that I'm still paying off the debts I made in them.” The long man made the confession with a comic simplicity.
“There's a deal to be said for the habit,” said Speed. “Having followed other trades teaches a lawyer something about human nature. I reckon Abe wouldn't be the man he is if he had studied his books all his days.”
“There is another side to that,” said Mr. Stanton and his precise accents and well-modulated voice seemed foreign in that homely place. “You are also a politician, Mr. Lincoln?”
The other nodded. “Of a kind. I'm a strong Henry Clay man.”