"Pardner, I wouldn't like to see him come back, though. I'd be sorry
for him. Think of the racket he'd have to take!"

"What time does the train start for New York?" asks Lockwin.

"Panic! Panic! Panic!" is the deafening cry of the newsboys.

The two men join a crowd in front of a telegraph office. Bulletins are
on a board and in the windows. Men are rushing about. The scene is in
strange contrast with the sylvan drama which is closing far to the
north, where the choir is singing "Asleep in Jesus."

There is a financial crash on the New York Stock Exchange. Bank after
bank is failing. "The New State's Fund Closes," is the latest bulletin.

"I got pretty near a thousand cases," says Corkey, "but you bet your
sweet life she ain't in no bank. I put my money in the vaults."

"Banks are better," says Lockwin. He has a bank-book somewhere in his
pockets. He pulls forth a mass of letters gray with wear. The visible
letter reads:

"HON. DAVID LOCKWIN,
Washington,
D. C."

His thought is that he should destroy these telltale documents. Then
he wonders what may be in these envelopes. There flashes over him a
new feeling--a sharp, lightning-like stroke passes across his
shoulder-blade and down his arm.