the light to try the cork. He is behind a show-case. Corkey is in
front of the, case holding a newspaper in hand, out of which he has
been reading of the coronation. His black eyes seem to pierce David
Lockwin's face. David Lockwin looks back--in hope, if any feeling can
show itself in that veiled countenance.

"He ain't dead! Not much! Can't tell me! I don't bury boats for
nothing. I tell you I think a heap of her, and she slung herself so on
that hospital and on that other thing there, out north, that I'd hate
to give her away. What was that yawl buried for? Nobody see it and it
was worth money, too. What was it buried for? Now I never tell you
the story of the night on the old tub. He sit just so."

Corkey takes a seat behind the stove and imitates David Lockwin.

The druggist gazes as in a stupor. He steps to his little room and
removes the chair. He must not sit and cogitate.

"Something ail him. I guess he was crazy."

"He must have been," says the druggist, "if he wasn't killed."

"Oh, he wasn't killed. Can't tell me. Now, suppose he want to come
back to Chicago--ain't he in a sweet box? And his wife over there
crying her eyes out--with more money--with more money--well--"

Corkey's head vibrates, his tongue whirs, he sneezes. Children,
romping on the sidewalk, troop to the door of the druggist to learn
what has happened.