It was the President’s overweening desire to accommodate all persons who came to him soliciting favors, but the opportunity was never offered until an untimely and unthinking disease, which possessed many of the characteristics of one of the most dreaded maladies, confined him to his bed at the White House.
The rumor spread that the President was afflicted with this disease, while the truth was that it was merely a very mild attack of varioloid. The office-seekers didn’t know the facts, and for once the Executive Mansion was clear of them.
One day, a man from the West, who didn’t read the papers, but wanted the postoffice in his town, called at the White House. The President, being then practically a well man, saw him. The caller was engaged in a voluble endeavor to put his capabilities in the most favorable light, when the President interrupted him with the remark that he would be compelled to make the interview short, as his doctor was due.
“Why, Mr. President, are you sick?” queried the visitor.
“Oh, nothing much,” replied Mr. Lincoln, “but the physician says he fears the worst.”
“What worst, may I ask?”
“Smallpox,” was the answer; “but you needn’t be scared. I’m only in the first stages now.”
The visitor grabbed his hat, sprang from his chair, and without a word bolted for the door.
“Don’t be in a hurry,” said the President placidly; “sit down and talk awhile.”
“Thank you, sir; I’ll call again,” shouted the Westerner, as he disappeared through the opening in the wall.
“Now, that’s the way with people,” the President said, when relating the story afterward. “When I can’t give them what they want, they’re dissatisfied, and say harsh things about me; but when I’ve something to give to everybody they scamper off.”
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