But it is greatly to be feared that our friend Stephen was bored with his errand before he arrived at the little wooden station of the Illinois capital. Standing on the platform after the train pulled out, he summoned up courage to ask a citizen with no mustache and a beard, which he swept away when he spat, where was the office of Lincoln & Herndon. The stranger spat twice, regarded Mr. Brice pityingly, and finally led him in silence past the picket fence and the New England-looking meeting-house opposite until they came to the great square on which the State House squatted. The State House was a building with much pretension to beauty, built in the classical style, of a yellow stone, with sold white blinds in the high windows and mighty columns capped at the gently slanting roof. But on top of it was reared a crude wooden dome, like a clay head on a marble statue. "That there," said the stranger, "is whar we watches for the County Delegations when they come in to a meetin'." And with this remark, pointing with a stubby thumb up a well-worn stair, he departed before Stephen could thank him. Stephen paused under the awning, of which there were many shading the brick pavement, to regard the straggling line of stores and houses which surrounded and did homage to the yellow pile. The brick house in which Mr. Lincoln's office was had decorations above the windows. Mounting the stair, Stephen found a room bare enough, save for a few chairs and law books, and not a soul in attendance. After sitting awhile by the window, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, he went out on the landing to make inquiries. There he met another citizen in shirt sleeves, like unto the first, in the very act of sweeping his beard out of the way of a dexterous expectoration. "Wal, young man," said he, "who be you lookin' for here?" "For Mr. Lincoln," said Stephen. At this the gentleman sat down on the dirty top step; and gave vent to quiet but annoying laughter. "I reckon you come to the wrong place." "I was told this was his office," said Stephen, with some heat. "Whar be you from?" said the citizen, with interest. "I don't see what that has to do with it," answered our friend. "Wal," said the citizen, critically, "if you was from Philadelphy or Boston, you might stand acquitted." Stephen was on the point of claiming Boston, but wisely hesitated. "I'm from St. Louis, with a message for Mr. Lincoln," he replied. "Ye talk like y e was from down East," said the citizens who seemed in the humor for conversation. "I reckon old Abe's' too busy to see you. Say, young man, did you ever hear of Stephen Arnold Douglas, alias the Little Giant, alias the Idol of our State, sir?"