r see a man
in such a hole. He don't know I'm onto him. But I've no use for this
Harpwood, that did me up when he had no need to. I wasn't in his way.
A week from Thursday night Harpwood is to marry Mrs. Lockwin. It isn't
no good. I want you to see Lockwin, and tell him for me that if his
story gets out it wasn't me, and I want you to tell him for me that he
mustn't let that poor widow commit no bigamy. It's an awful hole,
that's what it is! It is tough on him!"

He has worked on the problem for years.

The man groans. There is a rap on the door. "Hold up a minute. I
wouldn't mix in it, but I've done a good deal for the two of 'em, and
I've lost a good deal by Harpwood's play on me. I expect Harpwood will
set her against you, and I want her to do for you, pretty. So you tell
Lockwin he must act quick, and mustn't let her commit no bigamy. She's
too good a woman, and you need money bad, sissy. All my twenty-pieces!
All my twenty-pieces! My yellow stuff! Will you see Chalmers, sissy?
Call him Chalmers. He's Lockwin, just the same, but call him Chalmers."

The wife kisses her husband, and puts the letter back in the drawer.

"Sissy."

"Yes."

"I forgot one thing. Git a little mourning handkerchief out of my
hip-pocket. There ain't no gun there. You needn't be afraid."

The woman at last secures a handkerchief which looks the worse for
Corkey's long, though reverent, custody.

"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