The eyes grow brighter, the face grows dark, the mouth squares, the head vibrates, the little tongue plays about a mass of jet-black tobacco—­the sneeze comes.

“That’s a bird, too,” says the political boss.

If Corkey is to start a labor party, why should he set out to carry a republican primary election?

“Oh, well, you’re asking too many questions.  Will you take a drink?  Come down and see the boys.  See how solid I’ve got ’em.”

Lockwin’s brow clouds as the boss tells of this new development.

“Those sailors will fight,” he says.

“But Corkey reckons on the gamblers,” explains the boss, “and we can fix the gamblers.”

“What will you do?”

“Do?  I’ll do as I did in 1868, when I was running the Third.  The eight-hour men had the ward.”

“What did you do?”

“I carted over the West Side car company’s laborers—­a thousand on ’em.”

David Lockwin starts for home.  His heart is heavy.  To-day has been hard.  The delegations of nominating committees have been eager and greedy.  The disbursements have been large.  An anonymous circular has appeared, which calls attention to the fact that David Lockwin is a mere reader of books, an heir of some money who has married for more money.  Good citizens are invited to cast aside social reasons and oust the machine candidate, for the nomination of Lockwin will be a surrender of the district into the clutches of the ring at the city hall.

There is more than political rancor in this handbill.

There is more than a well defined, easily perceived personal malice in this argument.

There is the poisoning sting of the truth—­the truth said in a general way, but striking in a special and a tender place.

The house is reached.  Lockwin has not enlarged his establishment.  Politics, at least, has spared him the humiliation of moving on Prairie Avenue.  Politics has kept him “among the people.”

It is the house which holds his boy.  Lockwin did not adopt the boy for money!  The boy was not a step on the way to Congress!  Lockwin did not become a popular idol because he became a father to the foundling!

It is a cooling and a comforting thought.  Yesterday, while Lockwin sat in his study hurriedly preparing his statement to the party, on the needs of the nation and a reformed civil service, the golden head was as deep at a little desk beside.  Pencil in hand, the child had addressed the voters of the First District, explaining to them the reasons why his papa should be elected.  “Josephus,” wrote curly-head; “Groceries,” he added; “Ice,” he concluded; A, B, C, D and so on, with a tail the wrong way on J.

It is a memory that robs politics of its bitterness.  Lockwin opens the door and kisses his wife affectionately.  After all, he is a most fortunate man.  If there were a decent way he would let Harpwood go to Congress and be rid of him.