Hour by hour the reader goes on. Paper after paper falls aside, to be
followed by the succeeding issue. At last the tale is complete. David
Lockwin, dead, is the idol of the day at Chicago.

The man stretches his legs, puts one ankle over the other, sinks his
hands deep in his pockets, a newspaper entering with the left arm, and
lowers his head far down on his chest. The clock strikes and recalls
him to action.

"I can reach Chicago in time for that dedication," he says. "I guess,
after all, that I am David Lockwin's chief mourner."

Ah, yes! Why has not this second life brought more joy? The man
ponders and questions himself.

"I am Davy's chief mourner, too!" he says, and sobs. "By heaven, it is
Davy that has made me unhappy! I thought it was Chicago. I thought it
was politics. I thought it was Esther. It must have been Davy!"

"If it were Davy," he says, an hour later, "I have made a mistake."

Down he looks into his heart, whither he has not dared to search
before. He is homesick. Nobody loves Robert Chalmers. Nobody
respects Robert Chalmers. David Lockwin dead is great and good. How
about David Lockwin living?

His hands go deeper in his pockets at this. The motion rustles the
newspaper. He strives to shake free of the sheet. His eye rests on
the railway timetables.