"Wash it, sissy, and show it up to Mrs. Lockwin. I reckon it will steer her back to the day when she felt pretty good toward me. Be careful of that Harpwood. He ain't no use. I know it. She give me that wipe her own self--yes, she did! God bless her." The woman once more kisses the sick man. "The gold, sissy!" "Never mind it," she says. "You think it's some good--this letter--don't you, sissy?" "Of course I do." "I'm much obliged to you, sissy. Let in those people, now." The doctor enters. Corkey is at ease. He sinks into the wet pillow. He closes his eyes. "Did Chalmers come?" asks the physician. "Never mind him," says Corkey faintly. The night goes on. The yellow lights still color the telegraph-room. At 3 o'clock the copy boy enters hurriedly. "Corkey just died," he says, electrifying the comrades. "He just gave one of his most awful sneezes, and it killed him right off. The doctor says he burst a vein." Eighty lights are burning in the composing-room. Eighty compositors--cross old dogs, most of them--are ending a long and weary day's toil. There are bunches of heads rising over the cases in eager inquiry. "Corkey's sneeze killed him!" says Slug I. "Glad of it," growls one cross dog. "Glad of it," growls another cross dog "Glad of it," goes from alley to alley about the broad floor. "Who's got 48 X?" inquires the man with the last piece of copy. It is the end of Corkey's obituary. "This will be a scoop," says the copy-cutter. The father of the chapel has written some handsome resolutions to make the article longer. "Come up here, all you fellows! Chapel meeting!" The resolutions are passed with a mighty "Aye!" They are already in type. A long subscription paper for the widow finds ready signers. No one stands back. The men wash their hands, standing like cattle at a manger. "It's tough!" says Slug 1. "You bet it's tough!" says Slug 10, the crossest old dog of the pack. "They say he went broke at election," says Slug 50. "If his widow could learn to distribute type she could do mighty well over here. I'd give her 4,000 to throw in every day," says Slug 10. "Oh, let go of that towel!" The men return to their cases, put on their coats and wrap their white throats. This pneumonia is a bad thing, anyhow. Tramp, tramp, the small army goes down the long, iron stairways. "Did you hear about Corkey?" they ask as they go. "Corkey had a heart in him like an ox." "Bet he had," echoes up from the nethermost iron stairway. CHAPTER IV THE BRIDEGROOM Esther Lockwin's wedding day is at hand. Her mansion is this afternoon a suite of odorous bowers. Happy the man who may be secure in her affection! Such a man is George Harpwood. Let the November mists roll in from Lake Michigan. "It is no bed out there for me," thinks the bridegroom, whose other days have often been gloomy enough in November.