David Lockwin -- The Peoples Idol | Page 8

political enemy.
The absence of David Lockwin from his head-quarters is therefore

declared to be a "bomb-shell." In the afternoon papers it is said that he
has undoubtedly withdrawn in favor of Harpwood.
The morning papers announce serious illness in Lockwin's family.
What they announce matters nothing to Lockwin. He cannot be seen.
If it be diphtheria Lockwin will use whisky plentifully. It is his hobby
that whisky is the only antidote.
Dr. Floddin has taken charge. He believes that whisky would increase
Davy's fever. "It is not diphtheria," he says. "Be assured on that point.
It is probably asthma."
Whatever it may be, it is terrible to David Lockwin, and to Esther, and
to all.
The child draws his breath with a force that sometimes makes itself
heard all over the house. He must be treated with emetics. He is in the
chamber this Wednesday night, on a couch beside the great bed. The
room has been hot, but by what chance does the furnace fail at such a
moment? It is David Lockwin up and down, all night--now going to
bed in hope the child will sleep--now rising in terror to hear that shrill
breathing--now rousing all hands to heat the house and start a fire at the
mantel. Where is Dr. Cannoncart's book? Read that. Ah, here it is. "For
asthma, I have found that stramonium leaves give relief. Make a
decoction and spray the patient."
Off the man goes to the drug store for the packet of stramonium. It
must be had quickly. It must be boiled, and that means an hour. It is
incredible that the fire should go out! The man sweats a cold liquor. He
feels like a murderer. He feels bereft. He is exhausted with a week of
political orgy.
And yet along toward morning, as the gray morn grows red in response
to the stained glasses and rich carpetings, the room is warm once more.
The whistling in the child's throat is less shrill. The man and the woman
sit by the little couch and the man presses the rubber bulb and sprays

the air about the sick boy.
He will take no medicine. Never before did he refuse to obey. But now
he is in deeper matters. It requires all his strength and all his thoughts
to get his breath. As for medicine, he will not take it. For the spray he is
grateful. His beautiful eyes open gloriously when a breath has come
without that hard tugging for it.
At eight in the morning the man and the woman eat--a cup of coffee
and a nubbin of bread. The mother of Esther arrives. She too is terrified
by the ordeal through which the child is passing.
"Go to the head-quarters, David," she says. "You are needed. Pa says so.
I will stay all day,"
"Oh, Mother Wandrell, what do you think?"
"Here is your Dr. Floddin, ask him."
The doctor speaks sadly. "He is much worse. What has happened?"
"The fires went out," answers Lockwin.
"Get some flaxseed at once. Get a stove in here. These fine houses kill
many people. Keep the body enswathed in the double poultice, but
don't let the emulsion touch his skin directly. What is the effect of the
medicine? I see he has taken a little. The bottleful is not going fast
enough."
"He has taken no medicine at all," says Esther. "It was spilled."
David Lockwin, starting for head-quarters, must now attend the fixing
of a stove where there is little accommodation for a stove.
"Give me the child," says the cook, "and the fire will not go out."
"It would be murder for me to go to head-quarters, and I believe it
would be double murder," he whispers to himself. He is in a lamentable
state. At two o'clock, with the stove up, the flaxseed cooking, the boy

warmly bandaged, the asthmatic sounds diminished, and the women
certain they have administered some of the medicine to the stubborn
patient, Lockwin finds that he can lie down. He sleeps till dark, while
Corkey organizes for the most tumultuous primaries that were ever held
in Chicago.
With the twilight settling in upon his bed Lockwin starts into
wakefulness. He has dreamed of two-old-cat. "Bully for the codger!"
the tribe of red-faces yell. In the other room he now hears the dismal
gasps of his curly-head.
He rinses his mouth with water, not daring to ask if the worst is coming.
He knows it is not coming, else he had been called. Yet he is not quick
to enter the sick chamber.
"David, it is your duty to make him take it," the mother says, as she
goes. "Esther, you look worse than David."
Thus the night begins. The child has learned to dislike the
imprisonment of