Life of Clay turned his thoughts or aims, perhaps unconsciously to himself, in the direction of a public career. It is certain that he became a “Clay Whig,” and continued so until the question of liberty engaged his heart and soul in Illinois.

After Abraham ceased to serve Mr. Jones, he continued to visit his grocery often, in the evening, in company with Dennis Hanks and other companions. Here politics were discussed, stories told, jokes cracked, and general good fellowship established. Abraham was the star of the group, because he was full of wit, an expert story-teller, and the only one of the number who could recite prose and poetry, and write them too.

One night, when he was returning from the grocery quite late, in company with David Turnham and others, a man was discovered lying beside a mud-puddle.

“Hallo!” exclaimed David, “what’s this, Abe?” stopping and pulling the unknown man over.

“Dead or drunk,” remarked Abraham, at the same time proceeding to shake up the man. “Who is it?”

“More’n I know; nobody that I ever saw before,” David answered. “Shake him up more and see whether there’s any life in him.” And they shook him thoroughly to arouse him, but in vain.

“Plenty of rum in him if there is no life,” remarked Abraham, after satisfying himself that the man was dead drunk. “But his case must be attended to.”

“You may attend to him if you want to, but I sha’n’t,” said Nat Grigsby. “Come, let’s go home.”

“So I say,” added David; “it’s too cold to fuss about here. If the fellow likes such a bed he may sleep it out for all me.”

“He’ll freeze to death before morning if we leave him here,” responded Abraham.

“That’s about all he’s good for,” chimed in Nat. By this time they had discovered that the man was a miserable drunkard who lived some miles away. “Come on, I’m going home, whether the old fellow freezes or not.” And Nat started on.

“Well, I sha’n’t go home until I make out what is going to become of this chap,” said Abraham. “It would be inhuman to leave him to freeze here.”

“Perhaps it would, and perhaps it wouldn’t,” replied David. “Nobody is any better for his living, and some folks are worse. He’s a good-for-nothing feller any way.”

“That’s no reason why we should let him die here like a dog or hog,” retorted Abraham, with some spirit. “Come, Dave, let that go, and we’ll take him over to Dennis’ cabin.” At this time Dennis Hanks was married and lived in a cabin half a mile away.

“I think I see myself tugging the miserable wretch a half mile at this time of night,” retorted David. “You may make a fool of yourself over him if you want to, but I am going home.” And David started for home, hearing, as he hurried away, Abraham saying,—“Go, then, you hard-hearted fellow.”

Abraham was not more than a minute in determining what to do. He put his long strong arms around the drunken man, raised him up, flung him over his shoulder as he would a bag of corn, and started for Dennis Hanks’ cabin, where he safely deposited him.

“Look here, Dennis, I’ve brought you company,” said Abraham, as he laid down his burden. “More of a job to carry him than a log.”

“Where did you find that feller, Abe?” inquired Dennis, getting out of bed.