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.

Let the smoke of the tall chimneys tumble into the streets and
pirouette backward and forward in black eddies, giving to the city an
aspect forbidding to even the manner-born. George Harpwood feels no
mist. He sees no smoke. It is the tide of industry. It is the
earnest of Esther's five millions.

"My God, what a prize!" he exclaims. The marriage license is procured.
The minister is well and cannot fail. There is a bank-bill in the vest
pocket, convenient for the wedding fee.

It is wise to visit the hotel once more and inspect one's attire.