"Well, Mr. Surgeon, look at that child."

"Your boy is dying," says the surgeon, as the men retire to a back room.

"What is to be done?" asks the father, resolutely.

"We can insert a tube in his throat."

"Will that save his life?"

"It will prolong his life if the shock do not result fatally."

"If it were your own child would you do this operation?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Would you do it, certainly?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let us go in."

"Esther, we shall have to give him air through his throat."

"No, no!" shrieks the woman. "No, no!"

The child's eyes, almost filmy before, are lifted in beautiful appeal to the mother. "No, Davy. It shall not be!"

"It must be," says Lockwin.

"I have not brought my instruments," says the surgeon. "It is now very late in the case, anyway."

"Thank G.o.d!" is the thought of the father.

The child smiles upon his mother. He smiles upon Richard Tarbelle.

"How can he smile on papa, when papa was to cut that white and narrow throat?" It is David Lockwin putting his unhappy cheek beside the little face.

Now, if all these flaxseed rags and this stramonium sprayer and pan could be cleared out! If it were only daylight, so we could see Davy plainer!

Then comes a low cry from the kitchen. It is the forlorn mother, detailing the treacherous siege of membraneous croup.

David Lockwin can only think of the hours last night, while Davy was in Gethsemane. The cradle song was the death song. The doctors sit in the back room. Esther holds the little hands and talks to the ears that have gone past hearing. "There is a sublime patience in women,"

thinks Lockwin, for he cannot wait.

"Inconceivable! Inconceivable! Davy never at the window again! Take away my miserable life, oh, just nature! Just G.o.d!"

The white lips are moving:

"Books, papa! J-o-s-e-p--"

"Yes, Davy. Josephus. Papa knows. Thank you, Davy. I can't say good-bye, Davy, for I hope I can go with you!"

The man's head is in the pillow. "Oh, to take a little child like this, and send him out ahead of us--ahead of the strong man. Is it not hard, Richard Tarbelle?"

"Mr. Lockwin, as I said, I am not a rich man, but I would give a thousand dollars--a thousand dollars--I guess you had better look at him, Mr. Lockwin."

Davy is dead.

Never yet has that father showered on the child such a wealth of love as lies in that father's heart. It would spoil the boy, and Lockwin, himself almost a spoiled son, has had an especial horror of parental over-indulgence.

So, therefore, he is now free to take that little form in his arms.

The women will rid it of the nightgown and put on a cleaner garment.

And while they do this act, the man will kiss that form, beginning at the soles of the feet.

--Those holy fields Over whose acres walked those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed For our advantage on the bitter cross.--

Why do these lines course through the man's brain? Curses on that flaxseed and that vile drug which made these fields so hard for these little feet. Any way, the man may gather this clay in his arms. No one else shall touch it! It is a long way down these stairs! Never at the window again, Davy. "I would give a thousand dollars." Well, G.o.d bless Richard Tarbelle. If it were a longer distance to carry this load, it would be far better! Light up the back parlor! Let us have that ironing-board! Fix the chairs thus! He must have a good book.

It shall be Josephus. Oh, G.o.d! "Josephus, papa." Yes, yes, Davy.

Put curly-head on Josephus.

The man is crooning. He is happy with his dead.

He talks to the nearest person and to Davy.

There is a great noise at the head of the street. There is an inflow of the people. The shrill flageolet, the bra.s.s horns, the ba.s.s drums, the crash of the general bra.s.s and the triangle--these sounds fill the air.

Where is the people's idol, elected to Congress by to-night's count, already conceded at Opposition head-quarters?

The orator stands over his dead. What is that? Elected to Congress?

A speech?

"It will be better," says Richard Tarbelle. "Come up on the balcony, Mr. Lockwin. It will be better."

This noise relieves the father's brain. How fortunate it has come.

The orator goes up by a rear stairway. He appears on the balcony.

There is a cheer that may be heard all over the South Side.

"He looks haggard," says the first citizen.

"You'd look tired if you opened your barrel the way he did," vouchsafes the second citizen.

The orator lifts his voice. It is the proudest moment of his life, he a.s.sures them. In this eventful day's work the nation has been offered a guarantee of its welfare. The sanct.i.ty of our inst.i.tutions has been vindicated.

Here the tin-horns, the cat-calls, the drunken congratulations--the whole Babel--rises above the charm of oratory. But the people's idol does not stop. The words roll from his mouth. The form sways, the finger points.

"He's the boy!" "Notice his giblets!" "He will be President--if his barrel lasts." Thus the first, second and third saloon-keepers determine.

There is a revulsion in the crowd. What is the matter at the bas.e.m.e.nt gate?