David Lockwin--The People's Idol Part 44

"Of course I do."

"I'm much obliged to you, sissy. Let in those people, now."

The doctor enters. Corkey is at ease. He sinks into the wet pillow.

He closes his eyes.

"Did Chalmers come?" asks the physician.

"Never mind him," says Corkey faintly.

The night goes on. The yellow lights still color the telegraph-room.

At 3 o'clock the copy boy enters hurriedly.

"Corkey just died," he says, electrifying the comrades. "He just gave one of his most awful sneezes, and it killed him right off. The doctor says he burst a vein."

Eighty lights are burning in the composing-room. Eighty compositors--cross old dogs, most of them--are ending a long and weary day's toil. There are bunches of heads rising over the cases in eager inquiry.

"Corkey's sneeze killed him!" says Slug I.

"Glad of it," growls one cross dog.

"Glad of it," growls another cross dog

"Glad of it," goes from alley to alley about the broad floor.

"Who's got 48 X?" inquires the man with the last piece of copy. It is the end of Corkey's obituary.

"This will be a scoop," says the copy-cutter.

The father of the chapel has written some handsome resolutions to make the article longer.

"Come up here, all you fellows! Chapel meeting!"

The resolutions are pa.s.sed with a mighty "Aye!" They are already in type. A long subscription paper for the widow finds ready signers. No one stands back.

The men wash their hands, standing like cattle at a manger.

"It's tough!" says Slug 1.

"You bet it's tough!" says Slug 10, the crossest old dog of the pack.

"They say he went broke at election," says Slug 50.

"If his widow could learn to distribute type she could do mighty well over here. I'd give her 4,000 to throw in every day," says Slug 10.

"Oh, let go of that towel!"

The men return to their cases, put on their coats and wrap their white throats. This pneumonia is a bad thing, anyhow.

Tramp, tramp, the small army goes down the long, iron stairways.

"Did you hear about Corkey?" they ask as they go. "Corkey had a heart in him like an ox."

"Bet he had," echoes up from the nethermost iron stairway.

CHAPTER IV

THE BRIDEGROOM

Esther Lockwin's wedding day is at hand. Her mansion is this afternoon a suite of odorous bowers. Happy the man who may be secure in her affection!

Such a man is George Harpwood. Let the November mists roll in from Lake Michigan. "It is no bed out there for me," thinks the bridegroom, whose other days have often been gloomy enough in November.

Let the smoke of the tall chimneys tumble into the streets and pirouette backward and forward in black eddies, giving to the city an aspect forbidding to even the manner-born. George Harpwood feels no mist. He sees no smoke. It is the tide of industry. It is the earnest of Esther's five millions.

"My G.o.d, what a prize!" he exclaims. The marriage license is procured.

The minister is well and cannot fail. There is a bank-bill in the vest pocket, convenient for the wedding fee.

It is wise to visit the hotel once more and inspect one's attire. This city is undeniably sooty. A groom with a sooty shirt bosom would not reflect credit on Esther Lockwin.

"Magnificent woman!" he cries, as he changes his linen once more. He thinks he would marry her if she were poor.

It is getting well toward the event. Would it be correct to go early?

Where would he stay? Would he annoy the bride? What time is it? Let us see. Four-thirty! Yes, now to keep this linen white. How would it do to put a silk handkerchief over it--this way? Where are those silk handkerchiefs? Must have one! Must have one! Not a one! Where is that bell?

He touches the bell. He awaits the boy, who comes, and goes for a handkerchief.

He sits upon the side of the bed and listens to the bickerings of the waiters in the hall of the dining-room below. Dinner is now to be served.

He studies the lock-history of the door.

"Lots of people have broken in here," he muses.

He pa.s.ses over the rules--well he knows them!

The electric lights on the street throw dim shadows on the gas-lit wall--factories, depots, vessels, docks, saw-mills. The phantasmagoria pleases Mr. Harpwood.

"At 6 o'clock," he smiles, "I shall be the most powerful man in these parts. I shall have the employment of nearly 15,000 men. I shall be the husband of the woman who built the David Lockwin Annex--"

The man pauses.

"The David Lockwin Annex," he sneers, "No! No! No! It was a splendid pile. It was a splendid pile."

The man grows sordid.

"But it cost a splendid pile. Pshaw, George Harpwood, will anything ever satisfy you? How about that hospital? Didn't it give you your opportunity?"