money--the deposit of $75,000 to the order of a fictitious person. He
cannot do it.

"Put a stone over Davy's grave," he says, and goes into a region which
seems still more cold, more desolate, more terrible.

There is a knocking, knocking, knocking. He hears it long before he
replies to it. Let them knock! Let a man sleep a little longer! It
is probably the chambermaid at the hotel in Washington.

But it is a persistent chambermaid. Ah, now the bed is lifted up and
down. This must be seen to. We will open our eyes.

What a world of light and shimmer! The couch is the yawl of the
Africa. The persistent chambermaid is the Georgian Bay.

The gale has subsided. The sun shines. Blackbirds are singing. The
yawl is dancing on the waves near the shore.

David Lockwin sits up. How warm and pleasant to be alive!

Alive! Oh, yes! Chicago! The Africa! Is it not better?

Has he any face left? His nose seems flat. He must be desperately
wounded. His eyes grow dim. He must be dying again.

He sleeps and is once more gently awakened by the sea--so fond now, so
terrible last night.

He sits upright in the yawl, wet, sore, and yet whole in limb. He