There was a livery stable--Kimball's--having "stalls," as the sleeping apartments above came to be called, thus literally serving man and beast.

These stalls often lodged very distinguished people.

Kimball, the proprietor, a New Hampshire Democrat of imposing appearance, was one of the last Washingtonians to wear knee breeches and a ruffled shirt.

He was a great admirer of my father and his place was a resort of my childhood.
One day in the early April of 1852 I was humped in a chair upon one side of the open entrance reading a book--Mr.Kimball seated on the other side reading a newspaper--when there came down the street a tall, greasy-looking person, who as he approached said: "Kimball, I have another letter here from Frank." "Well, what does Frank say ?" Then the letter was produced, read and discussed.
It was all about the coming National Democratic Convention and its prospective nominee for President of the United States, "Frank" seeming to be a principal.

To me it sounded very queer.