"Yes; it's too late in the year for David to be on any boat."

The wife of David Lockwin cannot sleep. She cannot even write another letter. "How happy are lovers who may write to each other!" she says.

The gale rises and she waits. It is midnight and David is not home.

Now, if he should arrive, he would probably keep his state-room until morning.

She awakes at daylight. She dons a wrapper and creeps to the front door. There are the morning papers. She scans every paragraph. Ah!

here is David!

"NIAGARA FALLS, Oct. 16.--Congressman Lockwin left here to-day for Owen Sound, on Georgian Bay."

Georgian Bay! Where is that? She seeks the library. She finds a map.

Georgian Bay! Perhaps David has some lumber interest there.

The paper is scanned again. Owen Sound, Owen Sound. She is reading the marine intelligence. Yes, here is Owen Sound.

"OWEN SOUND, Oct. 16.--Cleared--Propeller Africa, merchandise, for Thunder Bay. Gale blowing, with snow."

Thunder Bay! It is still more incomprehensible.

There is a cry in the streets, hoa.r.s.e and loud--a triumphant proclamation:

"Extra! Full account o' de shipwreck o' de Africa! Full account o' de big shipwreck!"

A white arm reaches from a front door. A dime is paid for two papers.

The door must be held open for light to read.

"Appalling calamity! Unparalleled feat of journalism!"

Hideous it seems to Esther Lockwin. She clings to the newell-post.

"Death, off Cape Croker, of Congressman Lockwin!"

There may be two congressmen of that name.

There may be two! It is a dying hope. Can the eyes cling to the column long enough to read that paragraph?

"Congressman David Lockwin, of the First Illinois, died of his wounds about daylight in a yawl off Cape Croker. His body is lost with the yawl!"

There is a shriek that awakens the household. There is a white form lying in the hall near an open front door.

The servants rush up-stairs. There is a hubbub and a giving of orders.

The voices of the street come into the hall-way as winds into a cave:

"Extra! Extra! 'Palling calamity! Hundred and fifteen congressmen drowned! Extra! Extra!"

CHAPTER II

CORKEY'S FEAR OF A WIDOW'S GRIEF

Corkey and Noah are nearing the residence of Esther Lockwin.

"You bet your sweet life I don't want to see her nibs. It just breaks me all up to hear 'em take on, rip and snort and beller. Now, see here, you moke, when we git in you stand behind where I stand, and don't you begin to beller, too. If you do I'll shake you--I'll give you the clean lake breeze. If you walk up to the mark I'll get you into the league nine. You'll be their man to hoodoo the other ball clubs."

"Yessah!"

"You can't say nothing nohow, so all you've got to do is to see me face the music."

"Yessah!"

"There's the house now. They say he thought a powerful lot of her. Is there a saloon anywhere near?"

The twain look in vain for a beer sign, and resume their journey. They ascend the steps.

"There ain't no yawl up here! This is worse than the Africa. I believe I ain't so solid with myself as I was before she founder. Open that valve!"

Noah pulls the bell. There is no retreat now. Faces are peering from every window. Museum managers are on guard at the ends of the street.

The story of Corkey and his mascot is on every tongue in Chicago.

Esther Lockwin opens the door. Corkey had hoped he might have a moment of grace. At best there is a hindrance in his voice. Now he is speechless.

"Step in," she says.

He rolls a huge quid of tobacco to the other side of his face, and then falls in a second panic. He introduces his first finger in his mouth as if it were a grappling iron and extracts the black tobacco. He trots down a step or two and heaves the tobacco into the street, resisting, at the last moment, a temptation to hit a mark. He returns up the steps, a bunchy figure, in an enormously heavy, chinchilla, short coat, with blue pantaloons,

"Step in," says the voice pleasantly.

The action has begun as Corkey has not wished. He is both angry and contused. A spasm seizes his throat. He strangles. He coughs. He sneezes.

There is an opening of street doors on this alarming report, and Corkey pushes Noah before him into Esther Lockwin's parlors. The man's jet-black hair is wet with perspiration. The boy strives to stand behind, but Corkey feels more secure if the companion be held in front.

"Let me take your hats," she says calmly. She goes to the hall-tree with the hats. She shuts the door as she re-enters.

"Take those seats," she says.

But Corkey must pull himself together. This affair is compromising the great Corkey himself. He does not sit. He must begin.

"Me and this c.o.o.n, madam, we suppose you want to hear how Mr. Lockwin cashed in--how he--"

"You, of course, are Mr. Corkey, my husband's political opponent?"

"That's what I am, or was, madam; and you ain't no sorrier for that than me."

"The boy and you escaped?"

"I guess so."