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Updated: June 19, 2025
If David Lockwin had planned to increase all his prospects, and if all his plans had worked with precision, he could in nowise have pushed his interests more powerfully than by marrying Esther Wandrell. It might have been said of Lockwin that he was impractical; that he was a dreamer. He had done singular things. He had not studied the ways of public opinion.
"The voice of the people, my fellow-citizens," cries the people's idol, "is the voice is the voice of God." "God, and Holy Mary, and the sweet angels!" comes a low, keening cry from the kitchen. It is a month after the election. Lockwin has been out of bed for a week. "You astound me!" cries Dr. Tarpion. The doctor is just back from his mine in Mexico.
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 genial Corkey is puzzled. "He's going to resign, sure. He beats me this feller does." The boat lunges and groans. It lurches sidewise three or four times, and there are sudden moans of the sick on all sides beyond thin wooden partitions. "I bet he gits sick," says Corkey. "Pard, are ye sick now? Excuse me, Mr. Lockwin, but are ye sick any?" "No," says Lockwin, and he is not sick.
Where is the people's idol, elected to Congress by to-night's count, already conceded at Opposition head-quarters? The orator stands over his dead. What is that? Elected to Congress? A speech? "It will be better," says Richard Tarbelle. "Come up on the balcony, Mr. Lockwin. It will be better." This noise relieves the father's brain. How fortunate it has come. The orator goes up by a rear stairway.
The time has come for momentous action. It is settled that at the other end of this journey David Lockwin shall cease to exist. Now, how to do it. He may commit suicide. He may disappear. In furtherance of the latter plan there awaits the draft of Robert Chalmers, who bears letters from David Lockwin, the sum of $75,000. This deposit is in the Coal and Oil Trust Company's institution at New York.
Esther Wandrell was pleased to be in the society of either David Lockwin or George Harpwood. David Lockwin she knew. He was socially her equal. He had lived in Chicago as long as she. He was essentially the man she might love, for there was an element of unrest in his nature that corresponded with the turmoil underneath her calm exterior.
Lockwin thanks the shepherdess, and follows his boss. "The train goes East at 4:45. Don't lose a moment. Lucky I found you." The newspaper press is in possession of a sensation. On Monday morning we quote: "A plot has been revealed which might have resulted in the loss of the First district, and possibly of Congress, just at the moment the re-apportionment bill was to be passed.
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.
If we find Chalmers housed in comfortable apartments at Gramercy Square, is it not inconsistent that he should gradually supply himself with cough medicine, turpentine, alcohol, ammonia, niter, mentholine, camphor spirits, cholagogue, cholera mixture, whisky, oil, acid, salves and all the aids to health and cleanliness by which David Lockwin flourished?
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