David Lockwin -- The Peoples Idol | Page 9

poultices. The air is heavy with flaxseed. The basin of
stramonium water adds its melancholy odor to the room.
It is the first trouble Lockwin has ever seen. He is as unready and
unwilling as poor little Davy. It is murder--that furnace going out. This
thought comes to Lockwin over and over; perhaps the feeling of murder
is because Davy is not an own son.
It is all wretched and hideous! The slime of politics and the smell of
flaxseed unite to demoralize the man. O if Dr. Tarpion were only here!
But Davy will take no medicine; how could Tarpion help Davy?
Yes, that medicine--ipecac! The name has been hateful to Lockwin
from childhood.
Let Corkey win the primaries! What odds? Will not that release
Lockwin from the touching committees? Does he wish to owe his
election to a street car-company in another quarter of the city?

Perhaps Harpwood will win! How would that aid Davy? Ah, Davy!
Davy! all comes back to him! It is a strange influence this little boy has
thrown upon David Lockwin, child of fortune and people's idol.
It is a decent and wholesome thing---the only good and noble deed
which David Lockwin can just now credit to himself. He bathes his hot
forehead again.
Yes, Davy! Davy! Davy--the very thought of Davy restores the fallen
spirit. That water, too, seems to purify. Water and Davy! But it is the
well Davy--the little face framed at the window, waiting for papa,
waiting to know about Josephus--it is that Davy which stimulates the
soul.
Is it not a trial, then, to hear this boy--this rock of Lockwin's better
nature--in the grapple with Death himself?
If Davy were the flesh and blood of Lockwin, perhaps Lockwin might
determine that the child should follow its own wishes as to the taking
of ipecac. But this question of murder--this general feeling of Chicago
that its babes are slaughtered willfully--takes hold of the man
powerfully as he gathers his own scattered forces of life.
"Esther, will you not go to the rear chamber and sleep?"
The child appeals to her that her presence aids him.
"May I sit down here, Davy?"
There is a nod.
"Will you take some medicine now, Davy?"
"No, ma'am!" comes the gasping voice.
The man sprays with the stramonium. The doctor returns.
"Your boy is very ill with the asthma, Mr. Lockwin. He ought to be
relieved. But I think he will pull through. Do not allow your nerves to

be over-strained by the asthmatic respiration. It gives you more pain
than it gives to Davy."
"Do you suffer, Davy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah, well, he does not know what we mean. Get him to take the
medicine, Mr. Lockwin. It is your duty."
Duty! Alas! Is not David Lockwin responding to both love and duty
already? Is it not a response such as he did not believe he could make?
The doctor goes. The man works the rubber bulb until his fingers grow
paralytic. Esther sleeps from exhaustion. The child gets oversprayed.
The man stirs the flaxseed--how soon the stuff dries out! He adds water.
He rinses his mouth. He arranges the mash on the cloths. It is cold
already, and he puts it on the sheet-iron of the stove.
But Davy is still. How to get the poultices changed? The man feels
about the blessed little body. A tide of tenderness sweeps through his
frame. Alas! the poultices are cold again, and hard.
They are doing no good.
"Esther, I beg pardon, but will you assist me with the flaxseed?"
"Certainly, David. Have I slept? Why did you not call me sooner? Here,
lamby! Here, lamby! Let mamma help you."
The poultices are to be heated again. The woman concludes the affair.
The man sits stretched in a chair, hands deep in pockets, one ankle over
the other, chin deep on his breast.
"Esther," he says at last, "it must be done! It must be done! Give him to
me!"
"Oh, David, don't hurt him!"

The man has turned to brute. He seizes the child as the spoiler of a city
might begin his rapine.
"Pour the medicine--quick!"
It is ready.
"Now, Davy, you must take this, or I don't know but papa will--I don't
know but papa will kill you."
Up and down the little form is hurled. Stubbornly the little will
contends for its own liberty. Rougher and rougher become the motions,
darker and darker becomes the man's face--Satanic now--a murderer,
bent on having his own will.
"Oh, David, David!"
"Keep still, Esther! I'll tolerate nothing from you!"
Has there been a surrender of the gasping child? The man is too
murderous to hear it.
"I'll take it, papa! I'll take it, papa!"
It is a poor, wheezing little cry, barely distinguishable. How long