The doctor enters. Corkey is at ease. He sinks into the wet pillow.
He closes his eyes.

"Did Chalmers come?" asks the physician.

"Never mind him," says Corkey faintly.

The night goes on. The yellow lights still color the telegraph-room.
At 3 o'clock the copy boy enters hurriedly.

"Corkey just died," he says, electrifying the comrades. "He just gave
one of his most awful sneezes, and it killed him right off. The doctor
says he burst a vein."

Eighty lights are burning in the composing-room. Eighty
compositors--cross old dogs, most of them--are ending a long and weary
day's toil. There are bunches of heads rising over the cases in eager
inquiry.

"Corkey's sneeze killed him!" says Slug I.

"Glad of it," growls one cross dog.

"Glad of it," growls another cross dog

"Glad of it," goes from alley to alley about the broad floor.

"Who's got 48 X?" inquires the man with the last piece of copy. It is
the end of Corkey's obituary.