There is a chorus of astonishment. "It will save your life, Corkey.
We thought the election would kill you."

"I'm sleepy yet."

"Go back and sleep more."

"Good-bye, boys. I'm much obliged to you all. I'm out of politics.
They got all my stuff. I'm worried over a friend, too."

"Too bad, Corkey, too bad."

These editors, whose very food is the human drama, have not lost sight
of the terrible chapter of Corkey's activity, anxiety and inevitable
disappointment.

"Too bad, isn't it!" the telegraph editor says. "Had any fires?"

"It makes me almost cry," answers the assistant telegraph editor.
"Fires? Yes, I've enough for a display head."

"We must go and look after Corkey if he isn't here to-morrow night,"
observes the night editor. "He's bad off."

A little after midnight there is a loud rattle at the door of the drug
store.

The prescription clerk at last opens the door.