Corkey takes a seat behind the stove and imitates David Lockwin.

The druggist gazes as in a stupor.  He steps to his little room and removes the chair.  He must not sit and cogitate.

“Something ail him.  I guess he was crazy.”

“He must have been,” says the druggist, “if he wasn’t killed.”

“Oh, he wasn’t killed.  Can’t tell me.  Now, suppose he want to come back to Chicago—­ain’t he in a sweet box?  And his wife over there crying her eyes out—­with more money—­with more money—­well—­”

Corkey’s head vibrates, his tongue whirs, he sneezes.  Children, romping on the sidewalk, troop to the door of the druggist to learn what has happened.

Corkey looks at the prescription booth.  He notes the blue copper water at each corner.  His eyes rise to the white partition which separates the rear room from the store.

“Sleep in there?”

“Yes,” says the druggist, huskily.

“Get out of here!” cries Corkey to the last of the merry throng.  “I used to play just that same way right here in this street.  Cozy place in there.  Well, I ain’t so smart, but I’ve had a scheme on ever since I found that yawl.  She’s crying her eyes out over there—­you can’t tell me, for I know.  Mebbe his nobs would like to come back.  I’m going to sound her, and if she’s favorable I’m going to advertise—­see?”

“Do you see her often?”

“Yes, oftener than I want to.  You see she makes me go over that last night on the old tub and on the yawl.  Now I’m getting tired of telling how he died.  He ain’t dead.  But she seems to harp on that.  You just ought to hear her cap him up.  He’s the greatest and goodest man you ever see.  Well, now.  I’m going to change the play a little.  Oh, she’s no use.  She even wants me to bring the coon, and I let the ball-players take him.  He can’t be going down there.  I don’t want him along nohow.  I tell you I’m going to change the box.  I’m going to bring her round to the idea that he’s alive.”

Corkey is earnest.  His eyes are sparkling.  He is chewing hard on his tobacco.  His head is quaking.

“He’s alive, and so he’s a—­well, he’s a no-gooder.”

“Yes,” says the druggist huskily.

“But I hate to see her pining away, and I’m going to steer her against the idea that she can get him if she wants him.  She’s so rich she can do anything she wants to.  I guess if she wants him she can clear out with him and live in—­where is it?—­in Moscow.  That’s about the place for ducks like him.”

“Yes,” says the druggist.

Corkey takes the glass graduate in hand.  He turns sideways and puts his arm heavily on the frail show-case.  He lifts his foot to place it on the customary iron railing of a whisky shop.  He ruminates.

“The David Lockwin Annex—­that means a wing, doesn’t it?  Yes, I thought so.  Well, the wing is bigger than the—­than the—­than the—­the wing is bigger than the bird.”