"The only thing I can do with this, judge, is to put it with my leg cases."
"Leg cases!" exclaimed Judge Holt, with a frown at this supposed levity of the President in a case of life and death. "What do you mean by leg cases, sir?"
"Do you see those papers stuffed into those pigeonholes?" replied Lincoln. "They are the cases that you call 'cowardice-in-the-face-of-the-enemy,' but I call them 'leg cases' for short; and I will put it to you; I leave it for you to decide for yourself. If Almighty God gives a man a cowardly pair of legs, how can he help their running away with him?"
One day an old man came to him with a sad tale of sorrow. His son had been convicted of unpardonable crimes and sentenced to death, but he was an only son, and Lincoln said, kindly,—
"I am sorry I can do nothing for you. Listen to this telegram I received from General Butler yesterday:
"'President Lincoln, I pray you not to interfere with the courts-martial of the army. You will destroy all discipline among our soldiers.
B. F. Butler.'"
Lincoln watched the old man's grief for a minute, and then exclaimed, "By jingo! Butler or no Butler, here goes!" Writing a few words he handed the paper to the old man, reading,—
"Job Smith is not to be shot until further orders from me.
Abraham Lincoln."
"Why," said the old man, sadly, "I thought it was a pardon. You may order him to be shot next week."