“Good!” he cried, slapping his knee. “I didn't think you were that kind, Steve. Now sit down and tell me about this General of mine who wears seven-leagued boots. What was it—four hundred and twenty miles in fifty days? How many navigable rivers did he step across?” He began to count on those long fingers of his. “The Edisto, the Broad, the Catawba, the Pedee, and—?”
“The Cape Fear,” I said.
“Is—is the General a nice man?” asked Mr. Lincoln, his eyes twinkling.
“Yes, sir, he is that,” I answered heartily. “And not a man in the army wants anything when he is around. You should see that Army of the Mississippi, sir. They arrived in Goldsboro' in splendid condition.”
He got up and gathered his coat-tails under his arms, and began to walk up and down the cabin.
“What do the boys call the General?” he asked.
I told him “Uncle Billy.” And, thinking the story of the white socks might amuse him, I told him that. It did amuse him.
“Well, now,” he said, “any man that has a nickname like that is all right. That's the best recommendation you can give the General—just say 'Uncle Billy.'” He put one lip over the other. “You've given 'Uncle Billy' a good recommendation, Steve,” he said. “Did you ever hear the story of Mr. Wallace's Irish gardener?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, when Wallace was hiring his gardener he asked him whom he had been living with.