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…”
    “Now you look here, Mr. Swille. I won’t take your threats. I knew it was a mistake to come down here, you … you slave-flogging pea-picker.”
    Arthur Swille, startled, removes his cigar from his mouth.
    “Yes, I know what you think of me. I never went to none of that fancy Harvard and don’t lounge around Café Society quaffing white wine until three in the afternoon, and maybe my speeches don’t contain a lot of Latin, and maybe my anecdotes aren’t understated and maybe I ain’t none of that cologned rake sojourning over shrimp cocktails or sitting around in lavender knee britches, like a randy shank or a dandy rake.
    “I know you make fun of our nation, our war and our party, Mr. Swille. I know that you hold it against us because our shirts stick out of our britches and we can’t write long sentences without losing our way, but you wouldn’t be sitting up here in this … this Castle if it weren’t for the people. The public people. And the Republic people in this great people period, and that ain’t no pipple papple pablum either, pal.”
    A train whistle is heard.
    “Mr. Swille, listen to your train. That great locomotive that will soon be stretching across America, bumping cows, pursued by Indians, linking our Eastern cities with the West Coast. Who built your trains, Mr. Swille? The people did, Mr. Swille. Who made you what you are today, Mr. Swille? A swell titanic titan of ten continents, Mr. Swille. Who worked and sweated and tilled and toiled and travailed so that you could have your oil, your industry, Mr. Swille? Why, we did, Mr. Swille. Who toted and tarried and travestied themselves so that you could have your many homes, your ships and your buildings reaching the azure skies? We did, Mr. Swille. Yes, I know I’m a corn-bread and a catfish-eatin curmudgeon known to sup some scuppernong wine once in a while, but I will speak my mind, Mr. Swille. Plain Abe. Honest Abe. And I don’t care how much power you have in Congress, it won’t stop me speaking my mind, and if you say another word about my wife, Mr. Swille, I’m going to haul off and go you one right upside your fat head. Don’t forget I used to split rails.” Lincoln turns around. “I’m leaving.”
    Uncle Robin, blinking back tears, applauds Lincoln until Swille gives him a stern look.
    “Hey, wait a minute, come back, Mr. Lincoln, Mr. President.”
    Lincoln, stunned, stops and slowly turns around.
    “You know, I like your style. You’re really demanding, aren’t you?” Swille takes the old keys from his right hip and fastens them to his left. “How’s about a drink of Old Crow?”
    “Well, I’ll stay for a few more minutes, but I warn you, Mr. Swille, if you so much as whisper some calumny and perfidy about my wife, I’m going to belt you one.”
    “Sure, Mr. President. Sure,” Swille says as Lincoln returns to his seat in front of Swille’s desk. Swille is at the liquor cabinet reaching for the Old Crow, when, zing! a bullet comes from the direction of the window and shatters the bottle. The contents spill to the floor.
    “Why, I’ll be …” Swille says, staring at the pieces of glass on the floor. Lincoln and Uncle Robin are under the desk. Moe, the white house slave, rushes in. “Massa Swille, Massa Swille, the Confederates are outside whooping it up and breaking Mr. Lincoln’s carriage. We hid Mr. Lincoln’s party down in the wine cellar until the episode passed, and do you know what, Mr. Swille? Somebody has drunk up all the wine.”
    “Somebody has drunk up all the wine!” Swille and Uncle Robin say.
    “Uncle Robin, give me the telephone. I want to call Lee.”
    Uncle Robin obliges, tiptoeing across the room, grinning widely.
    “I don’t want any of that grey trash snooping about my door,” Swille says, frowning.
    Outside, rebel yells can be heard.
    “Hello? Give me that Lee … Well, I don’t care if he is at the front, tell him to bring his ass away from the front. This is Arthur Swille