Because she had believed in him, he
had started believing in himself. Her faith in him was still shining in
her eyes as she looked up at him and tried to smile.
He gave her a quick hug and hurried down the path.
It was a long, long walk to New Salem, where Abe arrived on a hot summer
day in 1831. This village, on a high bluff overlooking the Sangamon
River, was bigger than Gentryville, bigger even than Rockport. As he
wandered up and down the one street, bordered on both sides by a row of
neat log houses, he counted more than twenty-five buildings. There were
several stores, and he could see the mill down by the river.
[Illustration]
He pushed his way through a crowd that had gathered before one of the
houses. A worried-looking man, about ten years older than Abe, sat
behind a table on the little porch. He was writing in a big book.
"Howdy, Mister," said Abe. "What is all the excitement about?"
"This is election day," the man replied, "and I am the clerk in charge.
That is, I'm one of the clerks."
He stopped to write down the name of one of the men who stood in line.
He wrote the names of several other voters in his big book before he had
a chance to talk to Abe again.
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