overcome so easily? He had not intended to go. His face was streaked
with the grease and dirt of his work--he looked like a foundry man or
machinist, say twenty-five years of age. Frank watched the little squad
disappear at the end of the street round the corner under the trees.

This current war-spirit was strange. The people seemed to him to want
to hear nothing but the sound of the drum and fife, to see nothing but
troops, of which there were thousands now passing through on their
way to the front, carrying cold steel in the shape of guns at their
shoulders, to hear of war and the rumors of war. It was a thrilling
sentiment, no doubt, great but unprofitable. It meant self-sacrifice,
and he could not see that. If he went he might be shot, and what would
his noble emotion amount to then? He would rather make money, regulate
current political, social and financial affairs. The poor fool who
fell in behind the enlisting squad--no, not fool, he would not call him
that--the poor overwrought working-man--well, Heaven pity him! Heaven
pity all of them! They really did not know what they were doing.

One day he saw Lincoln--a tall, shambling man, long, bony, gawky, but
tremendously impressive. It was a raw, slushy morning of a late February
day, and the great war President was just through with his solemn
pronunciamento in regard to the bonds that might have been strained but
must not be broken. As he issued from the doorway of Independence Hall,
that famous birthplace of liberty, his face was set in a sad, meditative
calm. Cowperwood looked at him fixedly as he issued from the doorway
surrounded by chiefs of staff, local dignitaries, detectives, and the
curious, sympathetic faces of the public. As he studied the strangely
rough-hewn countenance a sense of the great worth and dignity of the man
came over him.