Squire Josiah Crawford was seated on the porch of his house in Gentryville, Indiana, one spring afternoon when a small boy called to see him. The Squire was a testy old man, not very fond of boys, and he glanced up over his book, impatient and annoyed at the interruption.
"What do you want here?" he demanded.
The boy had pulled off his raccoon-skin cap, and stood holding it in his hand while he eyed the old man.
"They say down at the store, sir," said the boy, "that you have a 'Life of George Washington,' I'd like mighty well to read it."
The Squire peered closer at his visitor, surprised out of his annoyance at the words. He looked over the boy, carefully examining his long, lank figure, the tangled mass of black hair, his deep-set eyes, and large mouth. He was evidently from some poor country family. His clothes were home-made, and the trousers were shrunk until they barely reached below his knees.
"What's your name, boy?" asked the Squire.
"Abe Lincoln, son of Tom Lincoln, down on Pidgeon Creek."
The Squire said to himself: "It must be that Tom Lincoln, who, folks say, is a ne'er-do-well and moves from place to place every year because he can't make his farm support him." Then he said, aloud, to the boy: "What do you want with my 'Life of Washington'?"
"I've been learning about him at school, and I'd like to know more."
The old man studied the boy in silence for some moments; something about the lad seemed to attract him. Finally he said: "Can I trust you to take good care of the book if I lend it to you?"