s--the
whole Babel--rises above the charm of oratory. But the people's idol
does not stop. The words roll from his mouth. The form sways, the
finger points.

"He's the boy!" "Notice his giblets!" "He will be President--if his
barrel lasts." Thus the first, second and third saloon-keepers
determine.

There is a revulsion in the crowd. What is the matter at the basement
gate?

It is the cook and the housekeeper in contention.

"I tell ye's I'm goin' to fasten it on the door! Such doings as this I
never heard of. Oh, Davy, my darlint! Oh! Davy, my darlint!"

The crowd is withdrawing to the opposite curb, But the crush is
tremendous. There are ten thousand people in the street. Only those
near by know what is happening.

The cook escapes from the housekeeper. She climbs the steps of the
portico. She flaunts the white crape. "Begone, ye blasphemous
wretches!" she cries.

"What the devil is that?" asks the first citizen.

The cook is fastening the white gauze and the white satin ribbon on the
bell knob.

"Do ye see that, ye graveyard robbers? Will ye blow yer brass bands
and yer tin pipes now, ye murtherin' wretches?"

The host has seen the signal of death, as it flaunts under the
flickering light of the gas lamp. There is an insensible yet rapid
departure. There were ten thousand hearers. There are, perhaps, ten
hundred whose eyes are as yet fixed upward on the orator.

"Our republic will forever remain splendid among nations," comes the
rich voice from the balcony. One may see a form swaying, an arm
reaching forth in the dim light.

The ten hundred are diminishing. It is like the banners of the auroral
light. The ten hundred were there a moment ago. Now it is but a
memory. No one is there. The street is so empty that a belated
delivery wagon may rattle along, stopping at wrong houses to fix the
number.

The orator speaks on. He weeps and he thunders.

Hasten out on that balcony, Richard Tarbelle, and stop this scandal!
Lead that demented orator in! Pluck him by the sleeve! Pluck harder!

"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.

CHAPTER XI

LYNCH-LAW FOR CORKEY

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