"And as for man," chants the harmonious choir, "his days are as gra.s.s."

"As a flower of the field," sounds the ba.s.s.

"So he flourisheth," answers the soft alto.

"For the wind pa.s.seth over it," sings the tenor.

"And it is gone," proclaims the treble.

"And the place thereof shall know it no more," breathes the full choir, preparing to shout that the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting upon them that fear Him.

It is found that Lockwin had hosts of friends. There is so much inquiry on account of that strange journey to Owen Sound that the political boss is grievously disturbed.

Corkey is not blind to this general uneasiness. He reads the posters and the advertis.e.m.e.nts. He whistles. It is a sum of money worthy of deep consideration.

"You offered to l-le-end to her," observes the mascot.

"Well, if she had needed the stuff she'd a been after it soon enough, wouldn't she? I don't offer it to everybody. But that ain't the point. I'm going after that roll--ten thousand dollars! You want to come? If I win, you git $500. I reckon that's enough for a kid."

It is a project which is well conceived, for Corkey may easily arrange for a salary from his great newspaper. To find Lockwin's body would be a clever feat of journalism, inasmuch as the search has been abandoned by the other papers.

A delegation of dock-frequenters waits on Corkey to demand that he shall stand for Congress in the second special election, made necessary by the death of Lockwin.

"Gentlemen, I'm off on business. I beg to de--de--re--re--drop out!

Please excuse me, and take something."

The touching committees cannot touch Corkey.

"The plant has been sprung," they comment, "His barrel is empty."

Corkey had once been rich when he did not know the value of wealth. He had been reduced to poverty. On becoming a reporter, he had laboriously saved $1,000 in gold coins. In a few weeks $300 of this store had been dissipated.

"And all the good work didn't cost nothing, either," thinks Corkey.

Would it not be wise now to keep the $700 that remain? When the vision of a contest, with Emery Storrs as advocate, had crossed poor Corkey's mind on the Africa, the Contestant could see that his gold was to be lost. He could not retreat without disgrace. Now he need not advance.

"You bet I _won't_!" thinks Corkey, as he expresses his regrets that enforced absence from Chicago will prevent his candidacy.

"You'd be elected!" chime the touching committees.

"You bet I _would_," says Corkey.

"Corkey is too smart," say the touching committees. "Wait till he gets into politics from the inside. Won't he wolf the candidates!"

Corkey is at last on the sh.o.r.es of Georgian Bay. The weather soon interferes with the search. But there are no signs of either body or yawl.

The wreck of the Africa, followed by daily conventional catastrophes, soon fades from public recollection. The will of David Lockwin is brought into court. The estate is surprisingly small.

It had been supposed that Lockwin was worth half a million. Wise men said Lockwin was probably good for $200,000. The probate shows that barely $75,000 have been left to the wife, and the estate thus bequeathed is in equities on mortgaged property. Mills that had always been clear of inc.u.mbrances are found to have been used for purposes of money-raising at the time of the election, or shortly thereafter.

The public conclusion is quick and unfavorable.

Lockwin ruined himself in carrying the primaries! The opposition papers, while professing the deepest pity for the dead, dip deep into the scandals of the election. "It is well the briber is out of the reach of further temptation," say they.

This tide of opprobrium would go higher but for the brave efforts of a single woman. She visits the political boss.

"You killed my husband!" she says deliberately.

The leader protests.

"Now you let these hyenas bark every day at his grave. And he has no grave!"

The woman grows white. The leader expostulates, The woman regains her anger.

"He has no grave, and yet your hyenas are barking, and barking. Do you think I do not read it? Do you think I intend to endure it?"

The leader makes his peace.

As a result there is a return to the question in the party press. Long eulogies of Lockwin appear. There is a movement for a monument. The memory of the dead man's oratory stirs the community. Several prominent citizens subscribe--when they learn that their subscriptions, however meager, will be made noteworthy from a source where money is not highly valued. The poor on every side touch the widow's heart with their sincere and generous offerings.

The philosophic discuss the character of Esther Lockwin.

"Her troubles have brought her out. These cold women are slow to strike fire, but I admire them," says the first philosopher.

"Don't you think our American widows make too much ado?" asks the second philosopher.

"They at least do not ascend the burning pyre of their dead husbands."

"To be sure. That's so. I don't know but I like Esther Lockwin the better. I never knew a man to lose so much as Lockwin did by dying."

"She declares his death was due to the little boy's death."

"Odd thing, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but he was a beautiful child. What was his name, now?"

"It was Lockwin's name--let me see--David."

"Oh, yes, Davy, they called him."

"Well, she has erected the prettiest sarcophagus in the whole cemetery for Davy. I tell you Esther Lockwin is a magnificent woman."

"She would have more critics, though, if she were not Wandrell's only daughter."

"Wandrell's only daughter! You don't tell me so! Ah, yes, yes! That accounts for it."

So, while the philosophers account for it, Esther Lockwin goes on with the black business of life. Every week she waits impatiently for news from Corkey. Every week he gives notice that he has found nothing.