old days before they made shoddy cloth or ready-made clothes. We had nigh unto forty hands in our shop, and there were three other shops in town fully as large. Raleigh was not as big then as it is now, but I doubt very much if one tailor could make a good living there these days. Well, as I was saying, Andy used to come to the shop every day. I was always a great reader, and although Andy did n't know one letter from another he was always pestering me out of work hours to read to him. He was a pert sort of a boy, and I always told him he would be a great man some day. One fall business was brisk and the boss wanted a 'prentice. He took in Andy, and the boy was right glad to get something to do to help along his old mother. A 'prentice usually worked the first year for his keep and his clothes; but Andy could n't leave his mother, and the boss agreed to give him what it would cost to feed and clothe him in money.

"In them days a 'prentice served seven years, and Andy worked out his time. The day he was free he come to us and says: "Boys, I know it is the custom to treat when you get out of your time; but I have n't got the money, and you'll have to excuse me." You see he gave all his money to his old mother, and we all knowed it. I said to one of the boys that day, says I, "Andy will be a great man one of these days;" but they just laughed at me. Andy worked about a month in our shop as a jour., and then went away to Abbeville and worked five or six months. The boss wrote for him, and he came back and worked steady till spring. He used to talk a great deal about the West; and one day he says to me: "Tom Lomsden, I'm going to quit Raleigh and go to Tennessee." I said: "All right, Andy, do what you think best; but you are bound to be a great man some day." He laughed; but the next day he called for a settlement from the boss, and that night he left Raleigh. I can see

him now.

He was a gawky sort of a boy, and his clothes never did fit him. He had on a little cap, and a bundle of shirts and socks thrown over his shoulder. It was a bright moonlight night, and I walked out of town with him a matter of two miles. He was talking all the time about the great things he intended to do out West; and when we shook hands, and he bade me good-bye, the tears just rolled down his cheeks. "Cheer up, Andy," says I, thinking to put a little heart in him; "Raleigh is no place for you. You'll succeed out there, and some day I hope to see you President, for you are bound to be a great man.” This made him laugh, and he answered sort of joking like: "Well, if ever I get to be President, I won't forget my old friend Tom Lomsden." Mister, I never forgot those words, and what came after proved to me that Andy was a man of his word.

"As I said before, Andy could n't read or write, but I heard from him that summer. He had got a job, and saved up enough to send for his old mammy. After she went away from Raleigh I lost track of him; but I always said he was bound to be a great man, and I knew I would hear of him some day. Well, I worked on, and my boys got big enough to help me. I was never a great man to save money, however, and when the rainy day came I was n't prepared. The war came on; and although I was too old to go myself, I told the boys to go in my place, and do all they could to help whip the Yankees. You know we all thought Kentucky, Tennessee, and Maryland would join us; and I felt certain we would. get our independence. You recollect how Andy loomed up in them days. I heard about it; and I says to everybody, "That's our Andy," for I knew he was bound to be a great man some day. People laughed at me, but I felt sure it was him; and when I heard about that speech at Nashville, and how he defied them, I knew it was Andy. Well, Andy thought one way and I thought another. He

thought he was right, and I knew I was. We did all we could, and three of the boys gave up their lives for the South; Bill and John at Gettysburg, and Jimmie down in Georgia, fighting Sherman. Tom, here,' with a nod toward the broad-shouldered man, ، was our baby, and I hated to see him go. He was working at Fayetteville; and one day I got a letter from him, in which he said that he had listed in the old 15th Infantry, and would leave the next day for the front. I got one other letter from him, and then the news came that he had been killed at Chancellorsville. His old mother took on powerful about it. She always was a weakly sort of a woman, and she just pined away like, mourning for Tom. She did n't live more 'n three months, and when she died I just give plumb up. They started a company of homeguards out of old men to do guard duty at Salisbury prison, and I joined 'em. We had a tolerable easy time; but I got wet one night, took sick with the bilious fever, and liked to have died. When I finally got well the rheumatism took hold of my old bones, and there were months at a time when I could n't touch my foot to the ground. What little money I had went; and when the surrender took place I had about twenty dollars left in a Confederate bill and a five-dollar gold-piece. One of my sisters lived in Catawba County, and I wrote and asked her it she would let me come and spend the few days I had to live at her home. Her husband wrote back that I was welcome to such as they had, and I spent my five-dollar gold-piece to get to 'em. They were monstrous poor, and had a large family of children. Although they were mighty kind to me, I could see that I was a burden to 'em, and I made up my mind to go to the infirmary. The rheumatism crippled me up so bad that I could n't work on the bench; and I tell you, stranger, things looked mighty dark for a childless, wifeless old man. One day I was studying what to do. I picked up a

paper, and the first line on the page caused an idea to flash into my head. It was something about the President, and I says: "I'll go to Andy; he will perhaps do something for his old friend." I thought at first I'd write, and then I concluded to go in person. I had no money to pay railroad fare; but my brother-in-law fixed up a little bundle of clothes, and I started out afoot. It was a long march, mister, but I kept moving on, and people all along the road was powerful kind to me. I think I was about ten weeks making the trip. A tailor who used to work with me in Raleigh lived in Alexandria, and I stayed all night with him. The next morning I got up bright and early, brushed up my clothes, and walked across the Long Bridge. I strolled around the city until mighty nigh noon, and then I inquired for the White House, and a boy directed me to it. When I got there I saw so many fine gentlemen and ladies goin' in and out that I was almost disheartened, and I turned back two or three times. You see, mister, I thought that if Andy had such fine visitors as them I would n't stand much of a show of seeing him. But I judged him wrong, sir; I judged him wrong. I followed the people into the house, and a fellow all covered with gold lace showed me into a room, where I was to sit until Andy was ready to receive visitors. I waited a half-hour, maybe, when two big doors at one end of the room were opened, and another fellow in uniform cried out: "The President."

"I went in with the rest, and there stood Andy on a little platform, shaking hands with this one, and speaking a word to that one. I sorter hung back to have a good look at him. It had been many years since I saw him, but I knew him in a minute. His hair was thinner, and turning gray, but he was the same old Andy. Before I knew it I had hold of his hand, and a fellow whispered my name, which they made me write on a little card. He was n't looking at me when he first took my hand,

but when the fellow in gold lace spoke, he leaned over and looked in my face.

"""God bless my soul," said he, "it's my old friend, Tom Lomsden!" and then he turned to the officer and said something. The officer shouted: "The reception is over!" and Andy, still holding my hand, led me back into a little room behind the big one. There were lots of great men there, Senators and generals and Cabinet-officers, and Andy introduced me to 'em all. Andy was n't a proud man, sir, and although he was President, he was n't ashamed of me in my homespun clothes, or afraid to acknowledge that we had worked together on the tailor's bench in old Raleigh.

"""This is my old friend, Tom Lomsden, gentlemen," he said, calling each one of 'em by name. "We worked together on the tailor's bench in Raleigh, forty years ago." And the gentlemen all shook hands with me, and inquired after my health, and I was just crying all the time. Andy saw it, and he excused himself from the great men and took me back into his own private room. "Tom," he says, and I remember his exact words; "Tom, old boy, I'm damned glad to see you. I've got some good old corn-whisky here, and we 'll take a drink for the sake of old times." He shook my hand, and I sorter managed to say: "I'm glad to see you, Andy. I always said you would be a great man, and am more than glad that you do n't forget your old friends."

"Well, sir, I stayed there two weeks, and Andy introduced me to all the great men, and was very kind to me. I told him all my troubles, and why I came to him, and he promised me that, although he was not a rich man, I should never want for anything.. One day we were out walking together, and a squad of soldiers passed us. They saluted the President, and one of the men ran out of the line and shook hands with me. It was Tom there, whom I thought dead at Chancellorsville. He'll tell you the rest.'