Then--the campaign with its crowds, its enthusiasm, its Vesuvian
mutterings. There was a curious touch of humor and history in its
banners. Here are three of them:
"Menard County for the Tall Sucker."
"We are for old Abe the Giant-Killer."
"Link on to Lincoln."
Then--those last days in Springfield.
He came to the office the afternoon before he left and threw himself on
the lounge and talked of bygone days with Herndon.
"Billy, how long have we been together?" he asked.
"Sixteen years."
"Never a cross word."
"Never."
"Keep the old sign hanging. A little thing like the election of a
President should make no change in the firm of Lincoln and Herndon. If
I live I'm coming back some time and then we'll go right on with the
practice of the law as if nothing had happened."
Then--that Monday morning in Springfield when at eight o'clock on the
eleventh of February the train bore him toward the great task of his
life. Hannah Armstrong, who had foxed his trousers in New Salem, and
the venerable Doctor Allen and the Brimsteads, and Aleck Ferguson, bent
with age, and Harry Needles and Bim and their four handsome children, and
my father and mother, and Betsey, my maiden sister, and Eli Fredenberg
were there in the crowd to bid him good-by.
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