in him like an ox."

"Bet he had," echoes up from the nethermost iron stairway.




CHAPTER IV

THE BRIDEGROOM

Esther Lockwin's wedding day is at hand. Her mansion is this afternoon
a suite of odorous bowers. Happy the man who may be secure in her
affection!

Such a man is George Harpwood. Let the November mists roll in from
Lake Michigan. "It is no bed out there for me," thinks the bridegroom,
whose other days have often been gloomy enough in November.

Let the smoke of the tall chimneys tumble into the streets and
pirouette backward and forward in black eddies, giving to the city an
aspect forbidding to even the manner-born. George Harpwood feels no
mist. He sees no smoke. It is the tide of industry. It is the
earnest of Esther's five millions.

"My God, what a prize!" he exclaims. The marriage license is procured.
The minister is well and cannot fail. There is a bank-bill in the vest
pocket, convenient for the wedding fee.

It is wise to visit the hotel once more and inspect one's attire. This