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Updated: May 25, 2025
"Can you cure my boy?" was Lockwin's question to Dr. Floddin. "I think so," said the good man. He was gratified to be called to the relief of a person of so much consequence. Thereupon began a patient treatment of Davy's tonsils, his nose, and his eyes. As if Dr. Floddin knew all things, he foretold the day when the boy would reappear in his own countenance.
This popular idolatry must be kept awake, because Harpwood has opened head-quarters and is visited by the same touching committees. He has been up and down State street, and has drunk more red liquor than was seen to go down Lockwin's throat. In more ways than one, Harpwood shows the timber out of which popular idols are made. The doctor is alarmed. He makes a personal canvass of all his patients.
That broken nose is a distortion that no detective could fathom. Those scarlet fimbrications under the skin proclaim the toper. Those missing teeth complete a picture which men do not admire. David Lockwin was courted. Robert Chalmers is shunned. It wounds a personal vanity that in David Lockwin's philosophy had not existed. It is the ideal of disguises, but it does not make Robert Chambers happy.
The doctor has climbed the volcano of Popocatapetl. His six-story hotel in Chicago is leased on a bond for five years. He has a nugget of gold from his mine. His health is capital. He is at the mental and physical antipodes of his friend. Talk of Mexican summer resorts and Chicago real estate is to the doctor's taste. He is not prepared for Lockwin's recital.
Why, too, should Robert Chalmers desire so many appurtenances of life that were in David Lockwin's quarters?
David Lockwin had spent nearly $200,000 to go to Congress, it is stated. "Infamous!" cries Robert Chalmers, and vows he is glad he is out of a world so base. He puts forth for books. Search as he may, he cannot find the editions that have grown dear to David Lockwin. He cannot abstain from more purchases of Chicago papers. They are familiar like the books in David Lockwin's library at Chicago.
Love has whispered in David Lockwin's ear that while it might be brave to knock at the door of one's own home, it would be rash to present one's self to Esther Lockwin, on Prairie avenue Esther Lockwin, worth five millions! Yet this lover, in order to bear, to believe, to hope and to endure, must enter the charmed circle of her daily life. He haunts the vicinity, he grows fertile in his plans.
I will try again." The child lays the curly head against Lockwin's breast. The full vibration of the struggling lungs resounds through the man's frame. "The pulse is even above 140. Oh! Esther, will he have to go through that again?" "No, David, no. See, he's asleep. Put him here. You look like a ghost. Go right to bed. To-morrow will be a trying day. Davy is tired out.
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."
Some experience in administrative affairs, together with the timely suggestions of a friend, lead me to note the opportunity for a claimant in our case. David Lockwin's body was not found. I have, therefore, kept a sharp eye out for claimants, and will say to the writer of the "consolatory letters" that our proofs of Lockwin's death are ample. Two persons saw him die. Mrs.
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