Mr. Lincoln ripped it open. A document fell out, and a letter. He put the document in his tall hat, which was upside down on the floor. As he got deeper into the letter, he pursed his mouth, and the lines of his face deepened in a smile. Then he looked up, grave again.
“Judge Whipple told you to run till you found me, did he, Mr. Brice?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is the Judge the same old criss-cross, contrary, violent fool that he always was?”
Providence put an answer in Stephen's mouth.
“He's been very good to me, Mr. Lincoln.”
Mr. Lincoln broke into laughter.
“Why, he's the biggest-hearted man I know. You know him, Oglesby,—Silas Whipple. But a man has to be a Daniel or a General Putnam to venture into that den of his. There's only one man in the world who can beard Silas, and he's the finest states-right Southern gentleman you ever saw. I mean Colonel Carvel. You've heard of him, Oglesby. Don't they quarrel once in a while, Mr. Brice?”
“They do have occasional arguments,” said Stephen, amused.
“Arguments!” cried Mr. Lincoln; “well, I couldn't come as near to fighting every day and stand it. If my dog and Bill's dog across the street walked around each other and growled for half a day, and then lay down together, as Carvel and Whipple do, by Jing, I'd put pepper on their noses—”