CHAPTER VI
A REIGN OF TERROR
When a man is in politics--when the party is intrusting its sacred interests to his leadership--it is expected that he will stay at head-quarters. It is as good as understood that he will be where the touching committees can touch him. His clarion voice must be heard denouncing the evil plans of the political enemy.
The absence of David Lockwin from his head-quarters is therefore declared to be a "bomb-shell." In the afternoon papers it is said that he has undoubtedly withdrawn in favor of Harpwood.
The morning papers announce serious illness in Lockwin's family.
What they announce matters nothing to Lockwin. He cannot be seen.
If it be diphtheria Lockwin will use whisky plentifully. It is his hobby that whisky is the only antidote.
Dr. Floddin has taken charge. He believes that whisky would increase Davy's fever. "It is not diphtheria," he says. "Be assured on that point. It is probably asthma."
Whatever it may be, it is terrible to David Lockwin, and to Esther, and to all.
The child draws his breath with a force that sometimes makes itself heard all over the house. He must be treated with emetics. He is in the chamber this Wednesday night, on a couch beside the great bed. The room has been hot, but by what chance does the furnace fail at such a moment? It is David Lockwin up and down, all night--now going to bed in hope the child will sleep--now rising in terror to hear that shrill breathing--now rousing all hands to heat the house and start a fire at the mantel. Where is Dr. Cannoncart's book? Read that. Ah, here it is. "For asthma, I have found that stramonium leaves give relief. Make a decoction and spray the patient."
Off the man goes to the drug store for the packet of stramonium. It must be had quickly. It must be boiled, and that means an hour. It is incredible that the fire should go out! The man sweats a cold liquor. He feels like a murderer. He feels bereft. He is exhausted with a week of political orgy.
And yet along toward morning, as the gray morn grows red in response to the stained glasses and rich carpetings, the room is warm once more. The whistling in the child's throat is less shrill. The man and the woman sit by the little couch and the man presses the rubber bulb and sprays the air about the sick boy.
He will take no medicine. Never before did he refuse to obey. But now he is in deeper matters. It requires all his strength and all his thoughts to get his breath. As for medicine, he will not take it. For the spray he is grateful. His beautiful eyes open gloriously when a breath has come without that hard tugging for it.
At eight in the morning the man and the woman eat--a cup of coffee and a nubbin of bread. The mother of Esther arrives. She too is terrified by the ordeal through which the child is passing.
"Go to the head-quarters, David," she says. "You are needed. Pa says so. I will stay all day,"
"Oh, Mother Wandrell, what do you think?"
"Here is your Dr. Floddin, ask him."
The doctor speaks sadly. "He is much worse. What has happened?"
"The fires went out," answers Lockwin.
"Get some flaxseed at once. Get a stove in here. These fine houses kill many people. Keep the body enswathed in the double poultice, but don't let the emulsion touch his skin directly. What is the effect of the medicine? I see he has taken a little. The bottleful is not going fast enough."
"He has taken no medicine at all," says Esther. "It was spilled."
David Lockwin, starting for head-quarters, must now attend the fixing of a stove where there is little accommodation for a stove.
"Give me the child," says the cook, "and the fire will not go out."
"It would be murder for me to go to head-quarters, and I believe it would be double murder," he whispers to himself. He is in a lamentable state. At two o'clock, with the stove up, the flaxseed cooking, the boy warmly bandaged, the asthmatic sounds diminished, and the women certain they have administered some of the medicine to the stubborn patient, Lockwin finds that he can lie down. He sleeps till dark, while Corkey organizes for the most tumultuous primaries that were ever held in Chicago.
With the twilight settling in upon his bed Lockwin starts into wakefulness. He has dreamed of two-old-cat. "Bully for the codger!" the tribe of red-faces yell. In the other room he now hears the dismal gasps of his curly-head.
He rinses his mouth with water, not daring to ask if the worst is coming. He knows it is not coming, else he had been called. Yet he is not quick to enter the sick chamber.
"David, it is your duty to make him take it," the mother says, as she goes. "Esther, you look worse than David."
Thus the night begins. The child has learned to dislike the imprisonment of poultices. The air is heavy with flaxseed. The basin of stramonium water adds its melancholy odor to the room.
It is the first trouble Lockwin has ever seen. He is as unready and unwilling as poor little Davy. It is murder--that furnace going out. This thought comes to Lockwin over and over; perhaps the feeling of murder is because Davy is not an own son.
It is all wretched and hideous! The slime of politics and the smell of flaxseed unite to demoralize the man. O if Dr. Tarpion were only here! But Davy will take no medicine; how could Tarpion help Davy?
Yes, that medicine--ipecac! The name has been hateful to Lockwin from childhood.
Let Corkey win the primaries! What odds? Will not that release Lockwin from the touching committees? Does he wish to owe his election to a street car-company in another quarter of the city?
Perhaps Harpwood will win! How would that aid Davy? Ah, Davy! Davy! all comes back to him! It is a strange influence this little boy has thrown upon David Lockwin, child of fortune and people's idol.
It is a decent and wholesome thing---the only good and noble deed which David Lockwin can just now credit to himself. He bathes his hot forehead again.
Yes, Davy! Davy! Davy--the very thought of Davy restores the fallen spirit. That water, too, seems to purify. Water and Davy! But it is the well Davy--the little face framed at the window, waiting for papa, waiting to know about Josephus--it is that Davy which stimulates the soul.
Is it not a trial, then, to hear this boy--this rock of Lockwin's better nature--in the grapple with Death himself?
If Davy were the flesh and blood of Lockwin, perhaps Lockwin might determine that the child should follow its own wishes as to the taking of ipecac. But this question of murder--this general feeling of Chicago that its babes are slaughtered willfully--takes hold of the man powerfully as he gathers his own scattered forces of life.
"Esther, will you not go to the rear chamber and sleep?"
The child appeals to her that her presence aids him.
"May I sit down here, Davy?"
There is a nod.
"Will you take some medicine now, Davy?"
"No, ma'am!" comes the gasping voice.
The man sprays with the stramonium. The doctor returns.
"Your boy is very ill with the asthma, Mr. Lockwin. He ought to be relieved. But I think he will pull through. Do not allow your nerves to be over-strained by the asthmatic respiration. It gives you more pain than it gives to Davy."
"Do you suffer, Davy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah, well, he does not know what we mean. Get him to take the medicine, Mr. Lockwin. It is your duty."
Duty! Alas! Is not David Lockwin responding to both love and duty already? Is it not a response such as he did not believe he could make?
The doctor goes. The man works the rubber bulb until his fingers grow paralytic. Esther sleeps from exhaustion. The child gets oversprayed. The man stirs the flaxseed--how soon the stuff dries out! He adds water. He rinses his mouth. He arranges the mash on the cloths. It is cold already, and he puts it on the sheet-iron of the stove.
But Davy is still. How to get the poultices changed? The man feels about the blessed little body. A tide of tenderness sweeps through his frame. Alas! the poultices are cold again, and hard.
They are doing no good.
"Esther, I beg pardon, but will you assist me with the flaxseed?"
"Certainly, David. Have I slept? Why did you not call me sooner? Here, lamby! Here, lamby! Let mamma help you."
The poultices are to be heated again. The woman concludes the affair. The man sits stretched in a chair, hands deep in pockets, one ankle over the other, chin deep on his breast.
"Esther," he says at last, "it must be done! It must be done! Give him to me!"
"Oh, David, don't hurt him!"
The man has turned to brute. He seizes the child as the spoiler of a city might begin his rapine.
"Pour the medicine--quick!"
It is ready.
"Now, Davy, you must take this, or I don't know but papa will--I don't know but papa will kill you."
Up and down the little form is hurled. Stubbornly the little will contends for its own liberty. Rougher and rougher become the motions, darker and darker becomes the man's face--Satanic now--a murderer, bent on having his own will.
"Oh, David, David!"
"Keep still, Esther! I'll tolerate nothing from you!"
Has there been a surrender of the gasping child? The man is too murderous to hear it.
"I'll take it, papa! I'll take it, papa!"
It is a poor, wheezing little cry, barely distinguishable. How long it has been coming to the understanding of those terrible captors cannot be known. How eagerly does the shapely little hand clutch the spoon. "Another," he nods. It is swallowed. The golden head is hidden in the couch.
And David Lockwin sits trembling on the bed, gazing in hatred on the medicine that has entered between him and his foundling.
"Papa had to do it! Papa had to do it! You will forgive him, pet?" So the woman whispers.
There is no answer.
The man sprays the air. "You won't blame papa, will you, Davy?"
The answer is eager. "No, please! Please, papa!"
It is a reign of terror erected on the government of love. It is chaos and asthma together.
"It is a horrible deed!" David Lockwin comments inwardly.
"Mother will be so glad," says Esther. She pities the man. She would not have been so cruel. She would have used gentler means, as she had been doing for twenty-eight hours! And Davy would have taken no medicine.
The room is at eighty degrees. The spray goes incessantly. The medicine is taken every half hour.
At three o'clock the emetic acts, giving immediate relief.
"I have heard my mother say," says Esther, "that a child is eased by a change of flannels. He is better now. I think I will put on a clean undershirt."
The woman takes the sick child in her lap and sits near the stove. The difficulties of the night return.
Why should the man's eyes be riveted on that captive's form! Ah! What a pitiful look is that on golden-head's face! The respiration is once more impeded. The little ribs start into sight. The little bellows of the body sucks with all its force. The breath comes at last. There is no complaint. There is the mute grandeur of Socrates.
"It is in us all!" the man cries.
"What is it in us all, David?" asks the woman.
"Cover him quickly, Esther, my dear," the man gasps, and buries his face in the pillow. "God of mercy, wipe that picture out of my memory!" he prays.
CHAPTER VII
THE PRIMARIES
The sun of Friday morning shines brightly. The sparrows chirp, the wagons rattle, the boys cry the papers, and the household smiles.
The peddling huckster's son is not surprised. He knew Dr. Floddin would cure Davy.
The cook buys heavily. They'll eat now. "Mind what I'll fix for that darlint to-day!" she threatens.
The housekeeper has taken Esther's place at Davy's couch.
"You have undoubtedly saved the life of your boy by making him take the emetic. He will love you just as much. I know--Mrs. Lockwin was telling me how much it disturbed you. Don't lose your empire over him, and he will be all right in a week. He must not have a relapse--that might kill him."
"Doctor, I am risen out of hell, the third day. I cannot tell you what I have felt, especially since midnight. But I can tell you now what I want. I desire that you shall take my place on this case. My personal affairs are extremely pressing. What yesterday was impossible is now easy. In fact, it seems to me that only impossibilities are probable. Remember that money is of no account. Throw aside your other practice. See that the women keep my boy from catching that cold again and I will pay you any sum you may name."
In Lockwin's school money will purchase all things. Money will now keep Davy from a relapse. Money will carry the primaries. Money will win the election.
After all, Lockwin is inclined to smile at the terrors of the evening before. "I was in need of sleep," he says.
He has not slept since. Why is he so brave now? But brave he is. He carries an air of happiness all about him. He has left his Davy talking in his own voice, breathing with perfect freedom and ready to go to sleep.
The people's idol appears at head-quarters. He tells all the boys of his good fortune. They open his barrel and become more in hope of the country than ever before.
The great Corkey appears also at Lockwin's head-quarters. "Hear you've had sickness." he says. "Sorry, because I guess I've knocked you out while you was at home. I never like to take an unfair advantage of nobody."
"Glad to see you, Mr. Corkey. Go ahead! Nobody happier than me to-day."
"He beats me," said Corkey; "but he isn't goin' to be so sweet to-night."
"Oh, I'm elected, sure!" Corkey announces on the docks. "Harpwood he offer me the collectorship of the port if I git down. But I go round to Lockwin's, and he seem to hope I'd win. He beats me."
"Why, he's the machine man, Corkey. You don't expect to beat the machine?"
"Cert. All machines is knocked out, some time, ain't they?"
"Not by the marines, Corkey."
"I can lick the man who comes down on these docks to say I'm going to get the worst of it."
Corkey is accordingly elected, and all hands take a drink at the other fellow's invitation, for which the great Corkey demands the privilege of paying. With this prologue the crowds start for the primaries.
"Lockwin, I expect you to stand straight up to the work to-day. You went back on us a little through the week. I know how sickness is, but my wife died while I was in charge of one campaign. Politics is politics. Stand to the work to-day. Nothing's the matter. You've created a good feeling among the boys. I've got to give the car company some more streets anyhow. The residents are hot for facilities. So don't bother about their coming over. They will be over about three o'clock. Let Corkey have the precincts of the Second and Third. If he comes further, a-repeating, you folks must fight. He will vote the gamblers but they will put in vest-pocket tickets for you. Understand? Got all I said? Give Corkey two wards---if he can get the sailors up."
Such are the day's injunctions of the political boss. It is only a special election in one district. It is practically settled already. The boss has a thousand other matters of equal moment.
This is a day on which the prominent citizen stays out of politics. The polling booths are built of stout timber in front of some saloon. The line which is in possession votes all day. Every vote counts one. The sailors arrive and form in line before the various polls of the Second and Third wards.
A stranger--a tenderfoot--that is, a resident party man, entitled to vote--takes his place in the line.
"What did you tell me I lied for?" asks a very tough politician.
"I didn't tell you you lied."
"I lie, do I?"
Several toughs seize the infuriated politician and hold him while the resident escapes.
These wards will be carried for Corkey. In twice as many other precincts the situation is precisely the same, except that Harpwood and Lockwin, the recognized rivals, have the polls.
At three o'clock the wagons begin to unload, vote and reload. A place is made at the head of the line for these "passengers."
The "passenger" sailors vote at all of Corkey's precincts. They start for the other wards.
Now we may see the man Lockwin as commandant. He has the police and the touching committees. He is voting his own "passengers" by the thousands.
The sailors arrive in wagons.
"You can't unload here!" says Lockwin.
The sailors unload.
Eight men seize a sailor and land him back in the wagon.
Corkey sits on the wagon in front. He draws his revolver.
"Put up that gun!" cries Lockwin.
"Put up your pop, Corkey," cry a half-dozen friendly toughs.
"I hate to do it," says Corkey, "but I guess them fellers has got the drop on me."
The battle is over. The sailors are all in the wagon. They drive off toward another precinct.
Corkey is pronounced a white-flag man. It is recalled that he let a partner play in his faro bank and did not kill the traitor.
"Oh, Corkey ain't no good at all," say the bad men from Bitter Creek.
It heats their blood. They shake hands with Lockwin and deploy on the threatened precincts.
When the sailors unload at the next precinct of the Fourth ward the emissaries who have arrived with notice of Corkey's surrender--these great hearts lead the fight. A saloon-keeper rushes out with a bung-starter and hits a sailor on the head. An alderman bites off a sailor's ear. An athletic sailor fells the first six foes who advance upon him. A shot is fired. The long line at the polls dissolves as if by magic. The judges of election disappear out the back door.
There is nothing for the unoccupied alderman to do but to place 400 Lockwin ballots in the box.
The Lockwin ballot contains the name of delegates who are sworn for all time to the alderman.
The police finally arrest all the fighting sailors and hurry them to the station.
The attempt of Corkey to carry any wards or precincts outside of the First and Second is futile. It passes the practicable. In theory it was good.
Twelve wagon-loads of fighting sailors ought to be able to vote anywhere.
A Napoleon would have massed his forces and conquered precincts.
But Napoleon himself sometimes displayed the white feather.
And that is the only way in which Corkey resembles Napoleon.
CHAPTER VIII
FIFTY KEGS OF BEER
"It is estimated," says the opposition press, "that Lockwin, the rich man's candidate, backed by the machine, the organized toughs of the 'Levee,' and the gamblers, has spent over $25,000 of corruption money. The primaries, which were held yesterday, were the most disgraceful political exhibitions which have ever been offered in our civic history. Harpwood was counted out in every ward but one. Corkey, the sailors' candidate, carried two wards by the same tactics which the police made use of elsewhere. In the First and Second, the officers arrested all 'disturbers' on complaint of Corkeyites. Everywhere else Corkeyites were either forced off the field or are now in the bull-pens at the stations.
"As our interview with the mayor shows, he is unacquainted with facts which everybody else possesses. It is well enough to repeat that we shall never have a real mayor until the present rule-or-ruin machine shall be destroyed.
"It is to be hoped that the split which threatens the convention of to-day will herald the dawn of law-and-order rule, when bossism, clamor for office, and saloon primaries will happily be things of the past."
The primaries which were held on Friday elected delegates to the convention of Saturday. If we scan the large body which is now gathering, it may be seen that the business of to-day is to be done by men who either hold or control office. The sidewalk inspectors, the health inspectors, the city and county building men, the men of the "institutions;" and the men of the postoffice are delegates. It may be safely guessed that they have no desire other than to hold their places until better places can be commanded. The party can trust its delegates. In this hall is gathered the effective governing force of the whole city. To these men a majority of the citizens have relinquished the business of public service. All those citizens who object are in the minority, and a majority of the minority object, only because it is desired that a different set of men should perform the same labors in the same way.
The political boss is not in sight. Eight delegations of Harpwood men are admitted because they cannot be kept out. The convention is called to order by a motion that a Lockwin man shall be chairman.
Four saloon-keepers stand upon chairs and shout.
Four bouncers of four rival saloons pull the orators down to the floor. The saloon-keepers are unarmed--their bung-starters are at home. The Lockwin man is in the chair. He has not been elected. Election in such a hubbub is impossible, and is not expected.
But the assumption of the chair by anybody is a good thing. The convention is thus enabled to learn that Corkey is making a speech. A chair is held on top of another chair. On this conspicuous perch the hero of the docks holds forth.
Corkey is an oddity. He is a new factor in politics. The rounders are curious to hear what he is saying.
"Your honor!" cries Corkey in a loud voice.
There is a sensation of merriment, which angers the orator.
"Oh, I know you're all no-gooders," he says. "I know that as well as any of ye."
There is a hurricane of cat-calls from the galleries.
There are cries of "Come down!" "Pull down his vest!" "See the sawed-off!"
"Yes, 'come down'!" yells the speaker in a white heat. "That's what you bloodsuckers make Lockwin do. He come down! I should say he did! But I'm no soft mark--you hear me? You bet your sweet life!"
The merriment is over. This is outrageous. The dignity of this convention has been compromised. There is a furious movement in the rear. The tumult is again unrestrained. Corkey has blundered.
The chairman pounds for order. The police begin to "suppress the excitement."
"Mr. Corkey, I understand, has an important announcement to make," cries the chair.
"You bet I have!" corroborates the navigator.
"Spit it out!"
"Make the turn, Corkey!"
"Everything goes as it lays!"
Such are the preparatory comments of the audience.
"Your honor--"
Corkey has been "pulled" for gambling. His public addresses heretofore have been made before the police justice.
"YOUR HONOR, MR. CHAIRMAN, AND MR. DELEGATES:--We're goin' to quit you. We're goin' to walk, to sherry, to bolt. We didn't have no fair chance to vote our men yesterday. We carried our wards just as you carried your'n. We've just as good a right to the candidate as you have. We therefore with-with-with-go out--and you can bet your sweet life we stay out! and you hear me--"
"Goon!" "Goon!" "Ki-yi!" "Yip-yip!"
Such are the flattering outbursts. Why does the orator pause?
His head quakes and vibrates, his face grows black, the mouth opens into a parallelogram, the sharp little tongue plays about the mass of black tobacco.
The convention leaps to its feet. The Sneeze has come.
"That settles it!" cry the delegates. "Bounce any man that'll do such a thing as that! Fire him out!"
The irresistible movement has reached Corkey's eyrie. Four faithful Corkeyites are holding Corkey's platform. The assault on these supports, these Atlases, brings the collapse of Corkey. He goes down fighting, and he fights like a hero. One of the toughs who saw Corkey put away his revolver at the primary is badly battered before he can retreat.
The melee is a good-sized one. "It is to be observed," writes the keen-eyed reporters, "that the consumption of peanuts rises to its maximum during the purgation of a convention."
The convention is purged. The fumes of whisky and tobacco increase. The crash of peanuts ceases. The committee on credentials reports. Harmony is to be the watchword. In this interest it has been agreed to seat four Harpwood delegates and eight Lockwin delegates in each of the contests.
Although the Harpwood delegates howl with indignation, it is only a howl. None of them go out. They will all vote. But their votes will not affect the nomination. If otherwise, the convention can be again purged and the correct result established. That would be bloody and difficult. Wait until it shall be necessary.
"It is one of the workings of the status quo," writes the reporter of the single-tax weekly, "that friction is everywhere reduced to the minimum of the system. There is little waste of bloody noses in politics."
"It is getting past dinner time. Why not be through with this? What is the matter?"
These are the questions of the sidewalk inspectors, who perhaps ache to return to their other public duties.
"It is Corkey's fault--Corkey's fault! But here's the platform, now!"
"We point with the finger of scorn--" reads the clerk in a great voice.
"That's the stuff!" respond the faithful, shaking hands one with another.
"Order!" scream the bouncers and police. They desire to hear the platform. It is the hinge on which liberty hangs. It is the brass idol of politics.
"And the peace, prosperity and general happiness of the American people will ever remain dear to the party which saved the union and now reaches a fraternal hand across the bloody chasm!" So reads the clerk.
"That's what! We win on that! They can't answer to that!"
"We demand a free ballot and a fair count!"
"No more bulldozing!" exclaims the bouncer who has heard the plank.
"We guarantee to the sovereign electors of the First district, and to the whole population of the nation a reform of the civil service and an entire abolition of the spoils system."
"I suppose," says the bouncer, "that things is going on too open in Washington."
The reading ceases.
"Ki-yi!" "Hooray!" "He-e-e-e-e-e!" "Zip-zip-zippee!"
There is a crash of peanuts, a tornado of bad air, a tempest of wild and joyous noise.
"The platform was received with genuine enthusiasm. It was adopted without a dissenting voice." Thus the reporters write hurriedly.
There has been an uproar ever since the question was put. Now, if the delegate quicken his ear, he may hear the chairman commanding:
"All those in favor will vote 'aye!'"
Again there is the tempest. The Harpwood delegates have voted aye!
"What is it?" ask most of the delegates.
"Lockwin is nominated by acclamation," comes the answer from the front.
"Oh, is he?" say the delegates, Harpwood men and all.
There is a numerous outgo for liquor. A man is escorted to the stage. He is cheered by those who see him. Most of the leading delegates are bargaining for places on the central committee. The Harpwood men are to be taken care of.
The speech goes on. "It is," says the orator, "the proudest day of my life, I assure you."
"Do you suppose he's gone broke?" inquire the committee men.
"It is the matchless character of our institutions--" continues the candidate.
"We'd be done up if the other fellows should indorse Corkey," says a hungry saloon-keeper.
"--The matchless character of our institutions that the people hold the reins of government."
The orator is gathering an audience. "The people" are hungry, but love of oratory is a still weaker place in their armor. The voice rises. The eye flashes. The cheeks turn crimson. The form straightens.
The orator weeps and he thunders.
"Hi--hi!" says the hungry saloon-keeper, in sudden admiration.
"America! My fellow-countrymen, it is the palm of the desert--the rock of liberty.
"We have a weapon firmer set,
And better than the bayonet;
A weapon that comes down as still
As snowflakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will
As lightning does the will of God."
The effect is electric.
"Jiminy!" whistles the hungry saloonkeeper, "ain't we lucky we put him up? I could sell fifty kag if he spoke anywhere in the same block."
CHAPTER IX
THE NIGHT BEFORE ELECTION
"The art of declamation," says Colton, "has been sinking in value from the moment that speakers were foolish enough to publish and readers wise enough to read."
All speakers are not foolish enough to publish; all readers are not wise enough to read. Besides, there is still a distinct art of oratory which has not lost its hold on the ears of men.
The orator weeps and he thunders. His audience by turns laments and clamors. But the orator, on the inner side of his spirit, is more calm. The practice of his wiles has dulled the edge of his feelings.
It may be, therefore, that the orator's art is not honest. Yet who knows that the painter himself really admires the landscape which, in his picture, gathers so much fame for him? The interests of the nation are now to be husbanded in this First Congressional district. The silvery voice of the gifted orator is to reclaim the wandering or lagging voter.
The man who has lost faith in the power of the ballot is to be revived with the stimulus of human speech. It can be done. It is done in every campaign.
Lockwin is doing it each afternoon and night. Bravely he meets the cry of "Money and machine." One would think he needed no better text.
But his secret text is Davy. Davy, whose life has been intrusted to Dr. Floddin, the friend of the poor, the healer who healed the eyes of the peddling huckster's son's sister, the eyes of the housekeeper's relatives, and the eyes of Davy himself.
The orator's speech may be impassioned, but he is thinking of Davy.
The orator may be infusing the noblest of patriotism in his hearers' hearts, but often he hardly knows what he is saying.
At a telling point he stops to think of Davy.
The hearer confesses that the question is unanswered.
Is Davy safe? Of course. "Then, my fellow-citizens, behold the superb rank of America among nations!" [Cheers.]
Is Dr. Tarpion to be gone another week, and is the cook right when she says Davy must eat? "Can we not, my friends and neighbors, lend our humble aid in restoring these magnificent institutions of liberty to their former splendor?" [Cries of "Hear!" "Hear!" "Down in front!"]
"The winning candidate," says the majority press, "is making a prodigious effort. It is confidentially explained that he was wounded by the charges of desertion or lukewarmness, which were circulated during the week of the primaries."
Dr. Floddin is therefore to take care of Davy. Dr. Floddin's horse is sick. It is a poor nag at best--a fifty-cents-a-call steed. The doctor meantime has a horse from the livery.
Davy is to continue the emetic treatment. He sits on the floor in the parlor and turns his orguinette. "Back to Our Mountains" is his favorite air. He has twenty-eight tunes, and he plays Verdi's piece twenty-eight times as often as any of the others.
"Oh, Davy, you'll kill us!" laments the housekeeper, for the little orguinette is stridulent and loud.
"He'll kill himself," says the cook. "He's not strong enough to grind that hand-organ. He eats nothing at all, at all."
"Papa isn't here any more, but I take my medicine," the child says. The drug is weakening his stomach.
"It is the only way," says Dr. Floddin, "to relieve his lungs."
"Are you sure he is safe?" asks Esther. "Are you sure it was asthma?"
"Oh, yes. Did you not see the white foam? That is asthma."
"You do not come often enough, doctor. I know Mr. Lockwin would be angry if he knew."
"My horse will be well to-morrow and I can call twice. But the child has passed the crisis. You must soon give him air. Let him play a while in the back yard. His lungs must be accustomed to the cold of winter."
"I presume Mr. Lockwin will take us south in December."
"Yes, I guess he'd better."
But Esther does not let Davy go out. The rattle is still in the little chest.
Lockwin is home at one o'clock in the morning. He visits Davy's bed. How beautiful is the sleeping child! "My God! if he had died!"
Lockwin is up and away at seven o'clock in the morning. "Be careful of the boy, Esther," he says. "What does the doctor seem to think?"
"He gives the same medicine," says Esther, "but Davy played his orguinette for over an hour yesterday."
"He did! Good! Esther, that lifts me up. I wish I could have heard him!"
"David, I fear that you are overtasking yourself. Do be careful! please be careful!"
Tears come in the fine eyes of the wife. Lockwin's back is turned.
"Good! Good!" he is saying. "So Davy played! I'll warrant it was 'Back to Our Mountains!'"
"Yes," says the wife.
"Good! Good! That's right. By-bye, Esther."
And the man goes out to victory whistling the lament of the crooning witch, "Back to Our Mountains! Back to Our Mountains!"
"Why should Davy be so fond of that?" thinks the whistler.
But this week of campaign cannot stretch out forever. It must end, just as Lockwin feels that another speech had killed him. It must end with Lockwin's nerves agog, so that when a book falls over on the shelves he starts like a deer at a shot.
It is Monday night, and there will be no speeches by the candidates. Esther has prepared to celebrate the evening by a gathering of a half-dozen intimate friends to hear an eminent violinist, whose performances are the delight of Chicago. The violinist is doubly eminent because he has a wife who is devoted to her husband's renown.
Lockwin sits on a sofa with his pet nestled at the side. What a sense of rest is this! How near heaven is this! He looks down on his little boy and has but one wish--that he might be across the room to behold the picture. Perhaps the man is extravagantly fond of that view of curly head, white face, dark brow and large, clear eyes!
Would the violinist make such an effect if his wife were not there to strike those heavy opening chords of that "Faust" fantasie?
"Will they play 'Back to Our Mountains?'" whispers the child.
"Keep still, Davy," the man says, himself silenced by a great rendition.
"The doctor's horse is sick," whispers Davy, hoarsely.
"Yes, I know," says the man. "Bravo, professor, bravo! You are a great artist."
"But the doctor's both horses is sick," insists Davy.
"Bravo! professor, bravo!"
Now comes the sweetest of cradle-songs, the professor with damper on his strings, the professor's wife scarcely touching the piano.
The strain ends. The man is in tears--not the tears of an orator. He glances at the child and the great eyes are likewise dim. "Kiss me, Davy!"
But it is as if Davy were too hard at work with an article. He must break from the room, the man suddenly wishing that the child could find its chief relief in him.
"Yet I made him take the medicine," thinks the man, in terror of that night.
The professor will take some little thing to eat--a glass of beer, perhaps--but he must not stay.
They go below, where Davy has told the cook of the extraordinary professor who can scarcely speak English. Davy has asked him if he could spell Josephus. "After all," says Davy, "I'd be ashamed to play so loud if I couldn't spell Josephus. It hurt my head."
"Yes, you darlint," says the cook; "here's some ice cream. I don't want you to wait. Eat it now."
"I can't eat anything but medicine," says Davy, "and I have to eat that or papa wouldn't love me. Do you think he loves me?"
"Ah, yes, darlint. Don't ye's be afraid of that. Thim as don't love the likes of ye's is scarcer than hen's teeth."
"T-double-e-t-h," observes the scholarly Davy.
"My! my!" cries the cook.
At the table, the professor will not care for any beer. Well, let it be a little. Well, another glass. Yes, the glasses are not large. Another? Yes.
"Ah! Meester Lockwin," he says at last, "I like to play for you. You look very tired, I hear you will go to the--to the--"
The professor must be aided by his good wife.
"To the Congress--ah, yes, to the Congress."
"If I shall be elected to-morrow," smiles the candidate.
The friends go to their homes. It is not late. Esther has explained the need her husband has of both diversion and rest. "He is naturally an unhappy man," she says, "but Davy and I are making him happier."
"Of all the men I have ever known," says one of the guests to his wife, as they walk the few steps they must take, "I think David Lockwin is the most blessed. All that money could do was dedicated to his education. He is a brilliant man naturally. He has married Esther Wandrell. He is sure to be elected to-morrow, and I heard a very prominent man say the other day that he wouldn't be surprised if Lockwin should some day be President of the United States. They call him the people's idol. I don't know but he is."
"I don't believe he appreciates his good fortune," says the wife. "Perhaps he has had too much."