lear that Clark street must
run north if the procession shall follow this route?

They lay a Chicago Sunday paper on his desk. The portrait of David
Lockwin confronts Robert Chalmers. There is a page of matter
concerning the dedication of a monument on the following Saturday.

The arbiter stammers so wretchedly that the losing side withdraw their
offer of arbitration.

"Chalmers doesn't know," they declare, and take away the paper while
Chalmers strives to read to the last syllable.

He is sick. He cannot conclude his day's work. His evident distress
secures a leave for the day.

"Get somebody in my place if I am not here tomorrow," he says,
thoughtfully, for they have been his only friends, little as they
suspect it. "Chicago in mourning for David Lockwin!" he cries in
astonishment, as he purchases great files of old Chicago papers.
"Chicago dedicating a monument to David Lockwin! It is beyond
conception! And so soon! The monument of Douglas waited for twenty
years."

The air and the ride revive the man. He even enters a restaurant and
tries to eat a _table d'hote_ dinner with a bottle of Jersey wine, all
for 50 cents, To do a perfunctory act seems to resuscitate him. He
takes up his heavy load of newspapers and finds a boy to carry them.
He remembers that he is a book-keeper on a small salary, and discharges
the boy at half-way.

He reaches his apartments and prepares for the long perusal of his
files of Chicago news. Each item seems to feed his self-love. He is
not Robert Chalmers. He is David Lockwin.

Hour by hour the reader goes on. Paper after paper falls aside, to be
followed by the succeeding issue. At last the tale is complete. David
Lockwin, dead, is the idol of the day at Chicago.

The man stretches his legs, puts one ankle over the other, sinks his
hands deep in his pockets, a newspaper entering with the left arm, and
lowers his head far down on his chest. The clock strikes and recalls
him to action.

"I can reach Chicago in time for that dedication," he says. "I guess,
after all, that I am David Lockwin's chief mourner."

Ah, yes! Why has not this second life brought more joy? The man
ponders and questions himself.

"I am Davy's chief mourner, too!" he says, and sobs. "By heaven, it is
Davy that has made me unhappy! I thought it was Chicago. I thought it
was politics. I thought it was Esther. It must have been Davy!"

"If it were Davy," he says, an hour later, "I h