“You didn't talk jest like 'em. Guess you'll be here, tonight—”
“Yes,” said Stephen, wearily. And he added, outs of force of habit, “Can you give me a room?”
“I reckon,” was the cheerful reply. “Number ten, There ain't nobody in there but Ben Billings, and the four Beaver brothers, an' three more. I'll have a shake-down for ye next the north window.”
Stephen's thanks for the hospitality perhaps lacked heartiness. But perceiving his host still contemplating him, he was emboldened to say:
“Has Mr. Lincoln gone to bed?”
“Who? Old Abe, at half-past ten? Wal I reckon you don't know him.”
Stephen's reflections here on the dignity of the Senatorial candidate of the Republican Party in Illinois were novel, at any rate. He thought of certain senators he had seen in Massachusetts.
“The only reason he ain't down here swappin' yarns with the boys, is because he's havin' some sort of confab with the Jedge and Joe Medill of the 'Chicagy Press' and 'Tribune'.”
“Do you think he would see me?” asked Stephen, eagerly. He was emboldened by the apparent lack of ceremony of the candidate. The landlord looked at him in some surprise.
“Wal, I reckon. Jest go up an' knock at the door number seven, and say Tom Wright sent ye.”