you for
your services?'

"Like a fool, as my wife always told me I was, I made no suggestion, but
let the remark pass with the tameness of a sheep--merely muttering that
it was a pleasure to serve him. Simon went to Washington--made no
striking hits on the floor, but was great on committees.

"Another idea entered my noddle, this clip without the aid of Mr. S. My
penmanship came into play. Days and nights of most laborious work
produced a full length portrait of Simon, that at the distance of ten
feet could not be distinguished from a fine engraving. I seized my
opportunity, found Simon in cozy quarters opposite Willard's, and
presented it in person. He was delighted--his daughter was delighted--a
full-faced heavily bearded Congressman present was delighted, and after
repeated assurances of 'thine to serve,' on the part of the Senator, I
crossed to my hotel--not Willard's--hadn't as yet sufficient elevation
of person and depth of purse for that,--but an humbler one in a back
street. Next day I saw my handiwork in the Rotunda--the admiration of
all but a black long-haired puppy, an M. C. and F. F. V., as I
afterwards learned, who said to a lady at his elbow who had admired it,
'Practice makes some of the poor clerks at the North tolerably good
pensmen.' I could have kicked him, but thought it might interfere with
the little matter in hand.

"'Tom,' said the senatorial star of my hopes one day, when my purse had
become as lean as a June shad, 'Tom, there is a place of $800 a year, I
have in view. A Senator is interfering, but I think it can be managed.
You must have patience, these things take time. I will write to you as
early as any definite result is attained.'

"Relying on Simon's management, which in his own case had never failed,
next morning saw me in the cars with light heart and lighter purse,
bound for home and Mrs. H., who I am always proud to think regretted my
absence more than my presence, although she would not admit it.

"Days passed; months passed; my wife reproached me with lost time--my
picture was gone; I had not heard from Simon; I ventured to write; next
mail brought a letter rich in indefinite promises.

"Years passed, and Simon was Secretary of War at a time when the office
had influence, position, and patronage, unequalled in its previous
history. 'Now is your time, Tom,' something within whispered--not
conscience--for that did not seem to favor my connection with Simon.

"I wrote again. Q