Corkey is convinced. "I'll bet it's true," he says, suddenly summing
up the situation.

He hurries away. The weather is wet and cold.

Corkey is drenched, and of all things he dreads a drenching. For that
he wears the thickest of clothes.

Three hours later he is known to be badly beaten at the polls. He is
denounced as a sore-head, a bolter, and a fool.

Corkey goes to his home. On the night of the fourth day he appears in
the yellow light of the telegraph-room.

"Commodore, we're sorry for you. Take it easy, and get back to work.
No man can live, doing as you've done. You were up all the time,
weren't you?"

Corkey's light is burning because the other editors need it. He sits
with his coat on, his face on his hands, his elbows on the table.

"I was up the last six days," he explains. "I just got out of bed now."

"Do you good to sleep," says the night editor.

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"Well, I go to sleep some time Wednesday. I sleep ever since."