Chapter 30

A GOOD SCHEME

The absence of love ruined David Lockwin. Love built Chicago. Love erected the David Lockwin Hospital. Love supports David Lockwin. He is a man to be pitied from the depths of the heart. Love makes him happy.

He reads the revised scriptures. To love's empire has been added the whole realm of charity. "Love," says the sacred word, "covereth a multitude of sins."

"Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things."

Love has become prudent. Love has whispered in David Lockwin's ear that while it might be brave to knock at the door of one's own home, it would be rash to present one's self to Esther Lockwin, on Prairie avenue--Esther Lockwin, worth five millions!

Yet this lover, in order to bear, to believe, to hope and to endure, must enter the charmed circle of her daily life. He haunts the vicinity, he grows fertile in his plans. He discovers an admirable method of coming in correspondence with the Prairie avenue mansion.

Dr. Floddin has recently died, and a new proprietor is in possession of the drug store. It is a matter of a week's time to install David Lockwin. It could have been done in a minute, but a week's time seemed more in order and pleased the seller. You look in and you see a square stove. Rising behind it you see a white prescription counter, with bottles of blue copper water at each corner. Rising still higher behind is a partition. Peer to the right and you may see a curtain, drawn aside. A little room contains a bed, an Argand lamp, a table with a small clock, druggist's books and the revised New Testament.

You may see David Lockwin, almost any day, sitting near and under that curtain; his clothes are strangely of the color of the drapery; his legs are stretched out one ankle over the other; his hands are deep in pockets; his head is far down on his breast. Or you may see him washing his windows. He keeps the cleanest windows on lower State street.

In this coigne of vantage it turns out that David Lockwin eventually comes to know the family life at the mansion. The servants at the Wandrell home have long stood behind the prescription counter while their orders were in course of serving.

The confinement of the business--the eternal hours of vigil--these matters feed the hungry love of the husband.

"Without this I should have died," he vows. The months go by without event.

Corkey has been the earliest caller. "Saw your sign," he says; "recollected the name. Been in New York all the time? I say, old man, want a pardner? I got a clean thousand cases in gold to put in."

The druggist has difficulty in withstanding Corkey's offers of capital. Corkey is struck with the idea of business. He has taken a strong fancy to Chalmers. Day by day the two men grow more intimate.

"Thought I'd never see you again, old man. I suppose I ought to start a saloon, but somehow I hate to do it, now I know some good people. Bet your life I'm solid over there!"

He points with his thumb toward Prairie avenue.

"I'm a good friend of the richest woman, I guess, there is in the world!" His tongue pops like a champagne cork. "I don't like to keep no saloon."

"I shall sell as little liquor as possible," the druggist says, conceiving the drift of Corkey's ideas.

"Pardner, you must have been a hard drinker yourself. How did your voice get so husky?"

"It was so always."

"It was so the first day I met you. Remember the dedication?"

"Yes; do you remember the bank?"

"Yep. Don't you know I tell you I was going to find that yawl?"

"I do."

"Well, I find it."

Does David Lockwin color? Or are those features forever crimson?

"You do look like a man as has been a red-hot sport in his day. Ever do anything in the ring? Let me try that red liquor of yours. Let's see if it tears. Oh, yes, about the yawl. I just go to the widow the other day and ask her for three hundred cases on the search. Well, she give me the three hundred and want me to take more, and I go right to Collingwood. The duck he show me the boat, and you bet your sweet life I hid her where she never will be seen. What's the use of tearing up the widow's feelings again?"

"You did right!" says the husky voice, the lover all the time wishing the discovery had been published. He feels like a claimant. He is not sure the world would believe David Lockwin to be alive if he could prove it.

"Chalmers, I'm going to tell you something that I haven't said to nobody. I hid that boat, and I threw away big money--I know I did. But I could get all the money I wanted of her--a free graft. Give me another slug of that budge."

The druggist is filling a small graduate with whisky for Corkey. What is Corkey about to say?

"They're having high old times in Russia. That was a great bomb they git in on his nobs last winter."

"The czar? Yes."

"I reckon they're going to git the feller they've got on top there now, too, don't you? They say he put on ten crowns yesterday. What do they call it? The coronation, yes. What's the name of the place? Moscow, yes."

The druggist is less confused.

"Wouldn't it be funny if the czar wasn't dead. But say, pardner, what would you say if I went over there and told my widow I didn't believe her old man was dead at all? Would she give me the gaff? Would she git mad?"

The druggist is busy finding a cork for a bottle. At last he comes to the light to try the cork. He is behind a show-case. Corkey is in front of the, case holding a newspaper in hand, out of which he has been reading of the coronation. His black eyes seem to pierce David Lockwin's face. David Lockwin looks back--in hope, if any feeling can show itself in that veiled countenance.

"He ain't dead! Not much! Can't tell me! I don't bury boats for nothing. I tell you I think a heap of her, and she slung herself so on that hospital and on that other thing there, out north, that I'd hate to give her away. What was that yawl buried for? Nobody see it and it was worth money, too. What was it buried for? Now I never tell you the story of the night on the old tub. He sit just so."

Corkey takes a seat behind the stove and imitates David Lockwin.

The druggist gazes as in a stupor. He steps to his little room and removes the chair. He must not sit and cogitate.

"Something ail him. I guess he was crazy."

"He must have been," says the druggist, "if he wasn't killed."

"Oh, he wasn't killed. Can't tell me. Now, suppose he want to come back to Chicago--ain't he in a sweet box? And his wife over there crying her eyes out--with more money--with more money--well--"

Corkey's head vibrates, his tongue whirs, he sneezes. Children, romping on the sidewalk, troop to the door of the druggist to learn what has happened.

Corkey looks at the prescription booth. He notes the blue copper water at each corner. His eyes rise to the white partition which separates the rear room from the store.

"Sleep in there?"

"Yes," says the druggist, huskily.

"Get out of here!" cries Corkey to the last of the merry throng. "I used to play just that same way right here in this street. Cozy place in there. Well, I ain't so smart, but I've had a scheme on ever since I found that yawl. She's crying her eyes out over there--you can't tell me, for I know. Mebbe his nobs would like to come back. I'm going to sound her, and if she's favorable I'm going to advertise--see?"

"Do you see her often?"

"Yes, oftener than I want to. You see she makes me go over that last night on the old tub and on the yawl. Now I'm getting tired of telling how he died. He ain't dead. But she seems to harp on that. You just ought to hear her cap him up. He's the greatest and goodest man you ever see. Well, now. I'm going to change the play a little. Oh, she's no use. She even wants me to bring the coon, and I let the ball-players take him. He can't be going down there. I don't want him along nohow. I tell you I'm going to change the box. I'm going to bring her round to the idea that he's alive."

Corkey is earnest. His eyes are sparkling. He is chewing hard on his tobacco. His head is quaking.

"He's alive, and so he's a--well, he's a no-gooder."

"Yes," says the druggist huskily.

"But I hate to see her pining away, and I'm going to steer her against the idea that she can get him if she wants him. She's so rich she can do anything she wants to. I guess if she wants him she can clear out with him and live in--where is it?--in Moscow. That's about the place for ducks like him."

"Yes," says the druggist.

Corkey takes the glass graduate in hand. He turns sideways and puts his arm heavily on the frail show-case. He lifts his foot to place it on the customary iron railing of a whisky shop. He ruminates.

"The David Lockwin Annex--that means a wing, doesn't it? Yes, I thought so. Well, the wing is bigger than the--than the--than the--the wing is bigger than the bird."

It is an observation that Corkey believes would be applauded among the sharp blades of the telegraph room. He drinks in a well-pleased mood.

"The David Lockwin Annex! The monument! They've given that a stiff name, too. I've seen some gay things in this town, but that beats me. It takes a woman to make a fool of herself. And there she is over there crying for her great hero. Fill this jim-crack with the budge again. Let her draw as much water as she will--put it to the top notch!"

The druggist trembles as he fills the graduate.

"Won't you have a bigger one?" he suggests.

"No, I ain't drinking much between campaigns. Did you know I was going to run for the Illinois house? Yes, that's nearer to my size than a whole congressional district. I'm in for it. But that's not now. My mind is over there, on the avenue. Say, old man, is the scheme any good? He dassen't come back. Do you think she'd pull out and go to him, wherever he is?"

The druggist carries the empty graduate to the water sink. He rinses it. His heart beats with the greatest joy it has ever known. He returns the graduate to the prescription counter.

"It is a good scheme, Corkey."

"You bet it _is_. Chalmers, just fill that thimble-rig once more. It don't hold three fingers, nohow. Hurry, for I got to go to the north pier right off. That's your little clock striking 6 in there now, ain't it?"