I had a notion to tell Lockwin that. Oh, he ain't no timber for President, or even for senator. I did tell Lockwin how my wife died.

I got to the funeral, of course, for this is a city, and Old Sol was forty miles away, with muddy roads. But, boys, when I get tired I just have to go up to the lake and catch ba.s.s. I tell you, politics is hard. I must find Lockwin right away. Good-bye, boys. Charge those drinks to me."

It is Sunday. David Lockwin is walking toward the little church where Davy went to Sunday-school. He pa.s.ses a group at a gate near the church. "Every week, just at this time, there goes by the most beautiful child. Stay and see him. See how he smiles up at our window."

"He is dead and buried," says Lockwin in their ear. They are young women. They are startled, and run in the cottage.

Lockwin walks as in a dream. To-morrow he goes to Washington.

"Politics is hard," he says, but he does not feel it. He feels nothing. He feels at rest. Nothing is hard. He is weak from an illness, of which he knows little. He has never been in this infant-room. Many a time he has left Davy at the door.

The pastor's wife is the shepherdess. She has a long, white crook.

Before her sit seven rows of wee faces and bodies. It is sweeter than a garden of flowers. They are too small to read books, but they learn at the fastest pace. The shepherdess gets Lockwin a chair. There are tears in her eyes. The audience is quick to feel. Tears come in the eyes of little faces nearly as beautiful as Davy's. Roses are sweetest when the dew sparkles on them.

"Oh, my dear sir, no. None of them are as pretty as he was." Such is the opinion of the shepherdess. "We see only one like him in a lifetime," she testifies. A wee, blue chair is vacant in the first row at the end--clearly the place of honor. A withered wreath lies on the chair. The man's eyes are fastened on that spot. Here is a world of which he knew nothing. Here he follows in the very footsteps.

"Listen, listen," says the motherly teacher. "This is Davy's father."

Three of the most bashful arise and come to be kissed. Strange power of human pity!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Three of the most bashful arise and come to be kissed.]

"Little Davy is with Jesus," says the shepherdess. "Now all you who want to be with Jesus, raise your hands."

Every right hand is up. Their faith is implicit, but many a left hand is pulling a neighboring curl. Busy is that long shepherd crook, to defeat those wicked left hands.

A head obtrudes in the door. "Excuse me," says the political boss.

"Mr. Lockwin, can you spare a moment? h.e.l.lo, Jessie! no, papa will not be home to-night. Tell mamma, will you?"

A curly head is saddened. Lockwin thanks the shepherdess, and follows his boss.

"The train goes East at 4:45. Don't lose a moment. Lucky I found you."

The newspaper press is in possession of a sensation. On Monday morning we quote: "A plot has been revealed which might have resulted in the loss of the First district, and possibly of Congress, just at the moment the re-apportionment bill was to be pa.s.sed. Notice of contest has been served on Congressman Lockwin as a blind for subsequent operations, and yesterday the newly elected member left hurriedly for Washington to consult with the attorney general. It is evident that the federal authorities will inquire into the high-handed outrages which swelled the votes of Corkey and the other unsuccessful candidates on election day.

"The time is coming," concludes the article, "when lynch law will be dealt out to the repeaters who haunt the tough precincts at each election day."

The prominent citizens say among themselves: "We ought to do something pretty soon, or these ward politicians will be governing the nation!"

CHAPTER XII

IN GEORGIAN BAY

Corkey is at Owen Sound. The political bee is buzzing in his bonnet.

Collector of the port--this office seems small to a man who really polled more votes than Lockwin. The notion has taken hold of Corkey that, by some hook or crook, Lockwin will get out and Corkey will get in.

When he thinks of this, Corkey rises and walks about his chair, sitting down again.

This is a gambler's habit.

There follows this incantation an incident which flatters his ambition.

Having changed his tobacco from the right to the left side of his mouth, he strangles badly. It takes him just five minutes to get a free breath. This is always a good sign. Thereupon the darkest of negro lads, with six fingers, a lick, left-handed and cross-eyed, enters the barroom of the hotel.

"Here!" cries Corkey. "What's your name?" The boy stammers in his speech.

"N-n-n-noah!" he replies.

"Why not?" inquires Corkey. "You bet your sweet life you tell me what your name is!"

"N-n-n-noah!"

"Why not? Tell me that!"

"M-m-my name is N-n-noah!" exclaims the boy.

"Ho! ho!" laughs Corkey. "Let's see them fingers! Got any more in your pockets?"

"N-n-n-noah," answers the boy.

"Got six toes, too?"

"Y-y-yes, sah!"

"A dead mascot!" says Corkey. It is an auspice of the most eminent fortune. Corkey from this moment rejects the collectorship, and stakes all on going to Congress. Thoughts of murdering Lockwin out here in this wilderness come into the man's mind.

"I wouldn't do that, nohow. Oh, I'll never be worked off--none of that for me!"

In Corkey's tongue, to be worked off is to be hanged.

"Nixy. I'll never be worked off. But it would be easy to throw him from the deck to-night. Some of the boys would do it, too, if they knew him."

The man grows murderous.

"Easy enough. Somebody slap his jaw and get him in a fight. Oh, he'll fight quick enough. Then three or four of 'em tip him into the lake.

Why, it ain't even the lake out here. It's Georgian Bay. It's out of the world, too. My father was in Congress. My grandfather was in.

Wonder how they got there? Wonder if they did any dirt?"

Corkey's face is hard and black. He rises. He feels ill. He swears at the mascot. "I _thought_ he had too many points when I see him."

The train is late. The propeller, Africa, lies at the dock ready to start.

"Well, if I come to such a place as this I must expect a jackleg railroad. They say they've got an old tub there at the dock. Good stiff fall breeze, too."

The thought of danger resuscitates Corkey. He finds some sailors, tells them how he was elected to Congress, slaps them on the back, tries to split the bar with his fist, a feat which has often won votes, and tightens his heart with raw Canadian whisky.

"Going to be rough, Corkey."

"'Spose so," nods Corkey. "Is she pretty good?"