So that if an orphan in the great city should be in the especial care
of the Lord, why should not that orphan drop into this house, exactly
as has happened, and no matter at all what society may have said?

"You must run for Congress!" the doctor commands.

It spurs Lockwin. He thinks of the great white dome at Washington. He
thinks of his marked ability as an orator, everywhere conceded. He
says he does not care to enter upon a life so active, but he is not
truly in earnest.

"You must run for Congress!" the committee says the next week.

Feelings of friendliness for the incumbent of the office to give
Lockwin a sufficient excuse for inaction.

The incumbent dies suddenly a week later.

"You must run to save the party," the committeemen announce.

A day later the matter is settled. The great editors are seen; the
boss of the machine is satisfied; the ward-workers and the
saloon-keepers are infused with party allegiance.

David Lockwin begins at one end of State street and drinks, or pretends
to drink, at every bar between Lake and Fortieth streets. This
libation poured on the altar of liberty, he is popularly declared to be
in the race. The newspapers announce that he is the people's idol, and
the boss of the machine sends word to the newspapers that it is all
well enough, but it must be kept up.