Lockwin confronts Robert Chalmers. There is a page of matter
concerning the dedication of a monument on the following Saturday.

The arbiter stammers so wretchedly that the losing side withdraw their
offer of arbitration.

"Chalmers doesn't know," they declare, and take away the paper while
Chalmers strives to read to the last syllable.

He is sick. He cannot conclude his day's work. His evident distress
secures a leave for the day.

"Get somebody in my place if I am not here tomorrow," he says,
thoughtfully, for they have been his only friends, little as they
suspect it. "Chicago in mourning for David Lockwin!" he cries in
astonishment, as he purchases great files of old Chicago papers.
"Chicago dedicating a monument to David Lockwin! It is beyond
conception! And so soon! The monument of Douglas waited for twenty
years."

The air and the ride revive the man. He even enters a restaurant and
tries to eat a _table d'hote_ dinner with a bottle of Jersey wine, all
for 50 cents, To do a perfunctory act seems to resuscitate him. He
takes up his heavy load of newspapers and finds a boy to carry them.
He remembers that he is a book-keeper on a small salary, and discharges
the boy at half-way.

He reaches his apartments and prepares for the long perusal of his
files of Chicago news. Each item seems to feed his self-love. He is
not Robert Chalmers. He is David Lockwin.