There was one story of his career that the late George M. Pullman told with manifest delight, which is thus related by an intimate friend.
One night going out of Chicago, a long, lean, ugly man, with a wart on his cheek, came into the depot. He paid George M. Pullman 50 cents, and half a berth was assigned him. Then he took off his coat and vest and hung them up, and they fitted the peg about as well as they fitted him. Then he kicked off his boots, which were of surprising length, turned into the berth, and having an easy conscience, was sleeping like a healthy baby before the car left the depot. Along came another passenger and paid his 50 cents. In two minutes he was back at George Pullman.
"There’s a man in that berth of mine." Said he, hotly, "and he’s about ten feet high. How am I going to sleep there, I’d like to know? Go and look at him."
In went Pullman—mad, too. The tall, lank man’s knees were under his chin, his arms were stretched across the bed and his feet were stored comfortably—for him. Pullman shook him until he awoke, and then told him if he wanted the whole berth he would have to pay $1.
"My dear sir," said the tall man, "a contract is a contract. I have paid you 50 cents for half this berth, and, as you see, I’m occupying it. There’s the other half," pointing to a strip about six inches wide. "Sell that and don’t disturb me again." And, so saying, the man with a wart on his face went to sleep again. He was Abraham Lincoln.