The visitor’s swallow-tailed coat was pressed and elegant; his shirt was crisp with ruffles, his heavy watch chain held a jeweled seal. He rested plump white hands, covered with yellow gloves, on the gold head of a cane. His homely face was cold-eyed and stern. He had refused to state his errand to the people in the outer office and Lincoln knew how thoroughly they deplored his stubborn insistence on seeing as many who called as possible. “Some day,” prophesied Nicolay gloomily, “you’re going to admit the man with the little derringer hid inside a boot, Mr. President.” “With the fences down all around, Nicolay, why put a bar over the one door,” Lincoln had argued calmly. “If they want to kill me they will unless you bolt me inside an iron box. I’m the people’s hired man. They put me here. I must listen to what they want to say.” But obviously the portly stranger in the flamboyant apparel had little to say. He remarked about the weather, the unfinished Capitol dome, and the trampled mall where army beef grazed. His chilly visage did not soften or show animation or interest. Momentarily Lincoln expected him to announce icily, as had happened before, “Mr. Lincoln, your wife owes me a large account on which no payment has been made for some time.” If this visitor’s errand was financial he made no mention of it. He stated that he was a friend of Secretary Seward and that he had attended the Convention at which Lincoln had been nominated. “But I did not vote for you, sir,” he added. “Your privilege and right, sir.” Lincoln filled a little following silence by pulling out the gold watch. “A gift I had today. From the Chicago Fair. Sort of a Christmas gift, I guess you’d call it.” He felt as young as Tad under those coldly scrutinizing eyes, and as naïve and awkward. “Very fitting and well deserved, Mr. President. Now I must tell you that I have no business here whatsoever. I merely came here to tell you that I believe you are doing all for the good of the country that it is in the power of man to do. And I want to say to you, Mr. President—go ahead, do as you darned well please and I will support you.” Lincoln’s rare laughter whooped. He sprang up and pumped the hand of the startled stranger. John Hay put an inquiring head in at the door. “This man,” chortled the President, “came here deliberately and on purpose to tell me that I was running this country right—and all the while I thought he’d come to tell me how to take Richmond. Sit down, sir, sit down! I have not seen enough of you.” “My dear Mr. President,” protested the visitor, “are words of approval so rare and exciting to the President of the United States?” “Rare?” Lincoln dropped back to his chair, his face collapsing into a sudden, melancholy mask. “John, show this man that copy of the New York _Herald_—the one where they call me a fiend and a disgrace to humanity because I set human beings free from slavery.”