"Banks are better," says Lockwin. He has a bank-book somewhere in his pockets. He pulls forth a mass of letters gray with wear. The visible letter reads: "HON. DAVID LOCKWIN, Washington, D. C." His thought is that he should destroy these telltale documents. Then he wonders what may be in these envelopes. There flashes over him a new feeling--a sharp, lightning-like stroke passes across his shoulder-blade and down his arm. It is Esther's handwriting, faded but familiar. The envelope is still sealed. It is a letter he got at Washington. The man trembles violently. "'Fraid you're stuck?" asks Corkey. The man hurriedly separates his bank-book from the letters. He displays the fresh and legible name of Robert Chalmers on the bank-book. "I have a little in a New York bank," he says. Corkey looks on the book. "The Coal and Oil Trust Company's Institution," he reads, "in account with Robert Chalmers. Well, money is a good thing. Glad you're fixed. Glad to know you. I'm fixed myself." Corkey examines the list of failures. "I'm glad you're heeled," he says. A boy is fastening a new bulletin on the window. "_There_ you be, now!" says Corkey. "The Coal and Oil Trust Company's Institution Goes Down," is on the bulletin. "I'll lend you money enough to git home," says Corkey. "Panic! Panic! Panic!!" bawls a large boy, who beats his small rivals ruthlessly aside and makes his way to Lockwin. The man is still trembling. He is trying to put away his worthless bank-book and cannot gain the entrance of the pocket. "'Ere's your panic! Buy of me, mister. Say, mister, won't you buy of me? Ah! git out, you great big coward!" It is the sympathetic Corkey, smartly cuffing the invader. "Strike somebody of your size, you great big coward! Ah! git out, you great big coward!" CHAPTER IV "A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT" "Poverty," says Ben Franklin, "often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue. It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright." David Lockwin has but one familiar acquaintance in the world and that is Corkey. Corkey will now start in search of the body of David Lockwin! David Lockwin has but a few hundred dollars in cash. His fortune is in a ruined bank. He hopes to get something out of it. His experience tells him he may expect several thousand dollars. Is it wise to return to New York? Yes. A situation awaits him there. He can protect his rights as a depositor. He can enjoy the pleasant apartments at Gramercy Park. But the expense! Ah! yes, he must take cheaper quarters. It is the first act of despotism which poverty has ever ventured to impose on David Lockwin. It makes New York seem inhospitable. It makes Chicago seem like home. Still, as David Lockwin seeks his hotel, noting always the complete solitude in which he dwells among the vast crowds that once knew him familiarly or by sight, it chills him to the marrow.