ELECTED
Yes, this is distinctly happy--this night at home, in the chamber after
the music, with Davy to sleep over here, too.
"There, Davy," urges Esther, "you have romped and romped. You have not
slept a wink to-day. It is far too late for children to be up, David.
I only took down the stove to-day, for fear we might need it."
But it is difficult to moderate the spirits of the boy. He is playing
all sorts of pranks with his father. The little lungs come near the
man's ear. There is a whistling sound.
The north wind has blown for two weeks. It is howling now outside the
windows.
"Pshaw!" the man laughs, "it is that cut-throat wind!"
For orators dislike the north wind.
"Pshaw! Esther!" he repeats, "I mistook the moaning of the wind in the
chimney." But he is pale at the thought.
"I hardly think you did, David. I can hear him wheeze over here."
"You can! Come here, Davy." But the child must be caught. His eyes
flash. He is all spirit. His laugh grows hoarse.
"How stupid I am," thinks the man. He seizes the arch boy and clasps
him in his arms.
Then Lockwin takes that white and tiny wrist. He pulls his watch. In
five seconds he has fifteen beats. Impossible! Wait a few minutes.
"Sit still for papa. Please, Davy."
The indefinable message is transmitted from the man's heart to the
child's. The child is still. The animation is gone.
Now, again. The watch goes so slowly. Is it going at all? Let us see
about that.
The watch is put to ear. Yes, it is going fast enough now. Of course
it is going. Is it not a Jurgensen of the costliest brand? Well,
then, we will count a full minute.
"Hold still, Davy, pet."
What is Congress and President now, as the wheeze settles on this
child, and the north wind batters at the windows?
The man looks for help to Esther. "Esther," he says, "I have counted
140 pulsations."
"Is that bad for a child, David? I guess not."
"I am probably mistaken. I will try again."
The child lays the curly head against Lockwin's breast. The full
vibration of the struggling lungs resounds through the man's frame.
"The pulse is even above 140. Oh! Esther, will he have to go through
that again?"
"No, David, no. See, he's asleep. Put him here. You look like a
ghost. Go right to bed. To-morrow will be a trying day. Davy is
tired out. To be sure, he must be worse when he is tired."
"Does the doctor come at all in the night?"
"Why, no, of course not. It is a chronic case now, he says. It
requires the same treatment."
The voice is soft consoling and sympathetic. The man is as tired as
Davy.
"We ought not to have had the folks here," he says.
"No," says Esther.
"I wish the stove were up," he thinks.
"I wish David were not in politics," the woman thinks.
There is in and about that chamber, then, the sleep of a tired man, the
whistling of a cold and hostile wind, such as few cities know, the
half-sleeping vigil of a troubled woman, and the increasing shrillness
of Davy's breathing.
"It sounds like croup to me," she whispers to herself. "It has always
sounded like croup to me. I wonder if it could be diphtheria? I
wonder what I ought to do? But David needs sleep so badly! I'm sorry
I had the company. I told David I was afraid of the child's health.
But David needed the music. Music rested him, he said."
The milk-wagons are rattling along the street once more. Will they
never cease? The man awakes with a start.
"What is that?" he demands. He has just dreamed how he treated 150
people to cigars and drinks on the day Dr. Floddin brought Davy
through. He has been walking with Davy among the animals in Lincoln
Park. "There's Santa Claus' horses," said Davy, of the elks.
There is a loud noise in the room.
"What on earth is it?" he asks. He is only partly awake.
"It is poor little Davy," Esther answers. "Oh, David!" The woman is
sobbing. She herself has awakened her husband.
The man is out of bed in an instant. The room is cold. There is no
stove. There is no stramonium. There is no flaxseed. There is no hot
water.
It is not the lack of these appliances that drives Lockwin into his
panic. He may keep his courage by storming about these misadventures.
But in his heart--in his logic--there is NO HOPE.
He hastens to the drug store. He has alarmed the household.
"Davy is dying!" he has said, brutally.
The drug clerk is a sound sleeper. "Let them rattle a little while,"
he soliloquizes with professional tranquillity.
"Child down again?" he inquires later on, in a conciliatory voice.
"Wouldn't give him any more of that emetic if it was my child. I've
re-filled that bottle three times now."
The stove must be gotten up. The pipe enters the mantel. There, that
will insure a hot poultice. But why does the thing throw out gas? Why
didn't it do that before?
"It is astonishing how much time can be lost in a crisis," the man
observes. He must carry his Davy into another room, couch and all, for
he will not suffer the little body to be chilled any further. "If this
cup may be kept from my lips," he prays, "I will be a better man."
The sun is high before the child is swathed with hot flaxseed. The man
sprays the stramonium. The child has periods of extreme difficulty.
He is nauseated in every fiber.
"God forgive me!" prays Lockwin.
"Mamma, will I have to play with the swear boys?"
"No, my darling."
"And will my curls be cut off before you get a picture?"
The man remembers that Davy has been sick much of late. They have no
likeness of him since he grew beautiful.
"And may I go to Sunday-school if I don't play with the swear boys?
For the teacher said--"
The canal tightens in the throat. The old battle begins.
The man sprays furiously. The child lisps: "Please don't, papa."
The man is hurt to think he has mistaken the child's needs.
The air gets dry again. The child signals with its hand.
"More spray, Davy? Ah! that helps you!"
The man is eased.
"Esther, where is that doctor?"
They had forgotten him. The case is chronic. All the household are
doctors. So now by his coming there is only to be one more to the lot
of vomiters and poulticers.
Yet it dismays all hands to think they have forgotten the famous savior
of Davy. They telephoned for him hours ago. "Ah me!" each says.
The child's feet grow cold. "Hot bottles! Hot bottles!" is the cry.
The first lot without corks. And at last Lockwin goes to the closet
and gets the rubber bags made for such uses.
At one o'clock the doctor arrives. Lockwin has gone to the drug store
to get more flaxseed If he get it himself it will be done. If he
order it some fatal hour might pass. The cold air revives him. He
sees a crowd of men down the street. It is a polling-booth.
He strives to gather the fact that it is election day. Corkey is
running as an independent democrat, because the democratic convention
did not indorse him after he bolted from the Lockwin convention.
But for that strange fillip of politics Lockwin must have been beaten
before he began the campaign. Well, what is the election now? Davy
dying all the week, and not a soul suspecting it!
"Girls wanted!" The sign is on the basement windows. Yes, that
accounts for the strange disorganization of the household. That, in
some way, explains the cold furnaces and lack of the most needful
things.
Never mind the girls. Plenty of them to be had. That doctor--what can
he say for himself?
The man starts as he enters the house. What was it Davy said last
night? That "the doctor's both horses were sick!" It is a
disagreeable recollection, therefore banish it, David Lockwin. Go up
and see the doctor.
The door is reached. Perhaps the child is already easier. The door is
opened. The smell of flaxseed reproduces every horror of Davy's first
attack. After the man has grown used to the flaxseed he begins to
detect the odor of stramonium. The pan is dry. Carry it back to the
stove and put some hot water in it. But look at Davy first.
"Esther, how is he?"
"I think he is growing better, David."
"The room here is not warm enough. Let us carry him back where the
stove is."
The cook is on the stairs and beholds the little cortege. "Lord!
Lord!" she wails, and the housekeeper silences the cry. "They carry
them like that at the hospital," the frightened woman explains. "But
they are always dead!"
In the kitchen sits a woman, visiting the cook. Her face is the very
picture of trouble. She rocks her body as she talks.
"I buried seven," she says.
"Seven children?"
"Yes, and every one with membrainyous croup. They may call it what
they please. Ah! I know; I know!"
She rocks her body, and laughs almost a silly laugh.
"Every one of them had a terrible attack, and then was well for a week.
Two of 'em dropped dead at play. They seems so full of life just
before they go. When my husband broke his leg I lost one. When I
caught the small-pox they let one die. Oh, my! Oh, my!"
The woman rocks her body and laughs.
Lockwin wants more boiling water. It gives him something to do to get
it. He enters the kitchen.
"Davy has the asthma," he says to the desolate mother as he passes.
"Davy has the membrainyous croup," she replies: "I saw that a week ago.
Makes no difference what the doctors say; they can't help no child."
"Where is that doctor, Esther?" the man says.
"He was here while you were gone. He said he would return soon. He
said it was a relapse, but he thought there was no danger."
"It is lucky," the man inwardly comments, "that we are all doctors."
"He should have stayed here and attended to his business," the man
observes audibly, as he makes a new poultice.
"Mamma!" It is Davy.
"Yes, mamma is here."
"Why don't the doctor come?"
"Are you suffering, precious?"
"I don't know."
"There, let us warm your feet. Don't take them away, pet. See, you
breathe easily now."
"Thank God!" says the man "that we are all doctors."
The afternoon wanes.
"Georgie Day, mamma."
"Yes, lamby."
"I want him to have my sleeve-buttons. He can play base-ball, not
two-old-cat. He can play real base-ball."
"Yes, Georgie shall come to see you to-morrow."
Lockwin goes to the speaking tube.
"Go and get Dr. Floddin at once. Tell him to come and stay with us.
Tell him we have difficulty in keeping the child warm."
The sun has poured into the window and gone on to other sick chambers.
The flaxseed and stramonium seem like reminders of the past stage of
the trouble. Richard Tarbelle, never before in a room where the tide
of life was low, looks down on Davy.
"Mr. Lockwin, I'm not rich, but I'd give a thousand dollars--a thousand
dollars!"
"My God, doctor! why have you been so slow getting here?"
"My horses have been taken sick as fast as I got them."
The doctor advances to the child. The child is smiling on Richard
Tarbelle.
"What ails you?"
It is Lockwin, looking in scorn on his doctor, who now, pale as a
ghost, throws his hands up and down silly as the crone downstairs by
the kitchen-range.
"Nothing can be done! Nothing can be done!"
"They say it hasn't been asthma at all," sobs Esther. "I suppose it's
diphtheria."
"The man who can't tell when a child is sick, can't tell when he's
dying," sneers Lockwin. "Doctor, when were you here yesterday?"
"I haven't been here since to-morrow week. My horses have been sick
and the child was well."
Davy is white as marble. His breath comes hard. But why he should be
dying, and why this fifty-cent doctor should know that much, puzzles
and dumfounds the father. Davy may die next week, perhaps. Not dying
now!
"It's a lie. It's not so," the father says.
"Mr. Lockwin, I don't want to say it, but it is so." It is the kind
voice of Richard Tarbelle.
"Very well, then. It is diphtheria." It is the one goblin that for
years has appalled Lockwin. Well it might, when it steals on a man
like this. "To think I never gave him a drop of whisky. Oh! God! Get
us a surgeon."
A medical college is not far away. The surgeon comes quickly, although
Lockwin has gone half-way to meet him. The two men arrive. Dr.
Floddin continues to throw his hands up and down. He loved Davy.
Perhaps Dr. Floddin is a brave man to stay now. Perhaps he would be
brave to go.
"Well, Mr. Surgeon, look at that child."
"Your boy is dying," says the surgeon, as the men retire to a back room.
"What is to be done?" asks the father, resolutely.
"We can insert a tube in his throat."
"Will that save his life?"
"It will prolong his life if the shock do not result fatally."
"If it were your own child would you do this operation?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Would you do it, certainly?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let us go in."
"Esther, we shall have to give him air through his throat."
"No, no!" shrieks the woman. "No, no!"
The child's eyes, almost filmy before, are lifted in beautiful appeal
to the mother. "No, Davy. It shall not be!"
"It must be," says Lockwin.
"I have not brought my instruments," says the surgeon. "It is now very
late in the case, anyway."
"Thank God!" is the thought of the father.
The child smiles upon his mother. He smiles upon Richard Tarbelle.
"How can he smile on papa, when papa was to cut that white and narrow
throat?" It is David Lockwin putting his unhappy cheek beside the
little face.
Now, if all these flaxseed rags and this stramonium sprayer and pan
could be cleared out! If it were only daylight, so we could see Davy
plainer!
Then comes a low cry from the kitchen. It is the forlorn mother,
detailing the treacherous siege of membraneous croup.
David Lockwin can only think of the hours last night, while Davy was in
Gethsemane. The cradle song was the death song. The doctors sit in
the back room. Esther holds the little hands and talks to the ears
that have gone past hearing. "There is a sublime patience in women,"
thinks Lockwin, for he cannot wait.
"Inconceivable! Inconceivable! Davy never at the window again! Take
away my miserable life, oh, just nature! Just God!"
The white lips are moving:
"Books, papa! J-o-s-e-p--"
"Yes, Davy. Josephus. Papa knows. Thank you, Davy. I can't say
good-bye, Davy, for I hope I can go with you!"
The man's head is in the pillow. "Oh, to take a little child like
this, and send him out ahead of us--ahead of the strong man. Is it not
hard, Richard Tarbelle?"
"Mr. Lockwin, as I said, I am not a rich man, but I would give a
thousand dollars--a thousand dollars--I guess you had better look at
him, Mr. Lockwin."
Davy is dead.
Never yet has that father showered on the child such a wealth of love
as lies in that father's heart. It would spoil the boy, and Lockwin,
himself almost a spoiled son, has had an especial horror of parental
over-indulgence.
So, therefore, he is now free to take that little form in his arms.
The women will rid it of the nightgown and put on a cleaner garment.
And while they do this act, the man will kiss that form, beginning at
the soles of the feet.
--Those holy fields
Over whose acres walked those blessed feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed
For our advantage on the bitter cross.--
Why do these lines course through the man's brain? Curses on that
flaxseed and that vile drug which made these fields so hard for these
little feet. Any way, the man may gather this clay in his arms. No
one else shall touch it! It is a long way down these stairs! Never at
the window again, Davy. "I would give a thousand dollars." Well, God
bless Richard Tarbelle. If it were a longer distance to carry this
load, it would be far better! Light up the back parlor! Let us have
that ironing-board! Fix the chairs thus! He must have a good book.
It shall be Josephus. Oh, God! "Josephus, papa." Yes, yes, Davy.
Put curly-head on Josephus.
The man is crooning. He is happy with his dead.
He talks to the nearest person and to Davy.
There is a great noise at the head of the street. There is an inflow
of the people. The shrill flageolet, the brass horns, the bass drums,
the crash of the general brass and the triangle--these sounds fill the
air.
Where is the people's idol, elected to Congress by to-night's count,
already conceded at Opposition head-quarters?
The orator stands over his dead. What is that? Elected to Congress?
A speech?
"It will be better," says Richard Tarbelle. "Come up on the balcony,
Mr. Lockwin. It will be better."
This noise relieves the father's brain. How fortunate it has come.
The orator goes up by a rear stairway. He appears on the balcony.
There is a cheer that may be heard all over the South Side.
"He looks haggard," says the first citizen.
"You'd look tired if you opened your barrel the way he did," vouchsafes
the second citizen.
The orator lifts his voice. It is the proudest moment of his life, he
assures them. In this eventful day's work the nation has been offered
a guarantee of its welfare. The sanctity of our institutions has been
vindicated.
Here the tin-horns, the cat-calls, the drunken congratulations--the
whole Babel--rises above the charm of oratory. But the people's idol
does not stop. The words roll from his mouth. The form sways, the
finger points.
"He's the boy!" "Notice his giblets!" "He will be President--if his
barrel lasts." Thus the first, second and third saloon-keepers
determine.
There is a revulsion in the crowd. What is the matter at the basement
gate?
It is the cook and the housekeeper in contention.
"I tell ye's I'm goin' to fasten it on the door! Such doings as this I
never heard of. Oh, Davy, my darlint! Oh! Davy, my darlint!"
The crowd is withdrawing to the opposite curb, But the crush is
tremendous. There are ten thousand people in the street. Only those
near by know what is happening.
The cook escapes from the housekeeper. She climbs the steps of the
portico. She flaunts the white crape. "Begone, ye blasphemous
wretches!" she cries.
"What the devil is that?" asks the first citizen.
The cook is fastening the white gauze and the white satin ribbon on the
bell knob.
"Do ye see that, ye graveyard robbers? Will ye blow yer brass bands
and yer tin pipes now, ye murtherin' wretches?"
The host has seen the signal of death, as it flaunts under the
flickering light of the gas lamp. There is an insensible yet rapid
departure. There were ten thousand hearers. There are, perhaps, ten
hundred whose eyes are as yet fixed upward on the orator.
"Our republic will forever remain splendid among nations," comes the
rich voice from the balcony. One may see a form swaying, an arm
reaching forth in the dim light.
The ten hundred are diminishing. It is like the banners of the auroral
light. The ten hundred were there a moment ago. Now it is but a
memory. No one is there. The street is so empty that a belated
delivery wagon may rattle along, stopping at wrong houses to fix the
number.
The orator speaks on. He weeps and he thunders.
Hasten out on that balcony, Richard Tarbelle, and stop this scandal!
Lead that demented orator in! Pluck him by the sleeve! Pluck harder!
"The voice of the people, my fellow-citizens," cries the people's idol,
"is the voice--is the voice of God."
"God, and Holy Mary, and the sweet angels!" comes a low, keening cry
from the kitchen.