He has worked on the problem for years.

The man groans.  There is a rap on the door.  “Hold up a minute.  I wouldn’t mix in it, but I’ve done a good deal for the two of ’em, and I’ve lost a good deal by Harpwood’s play on me.  I expect Harpwood will set her against you, and I want her to do for you, pretty.  So you tell Lockwin he must act quick, and mustn’t let her commit no bigamy.  She’s too good a woman, and you need money bad, sissy.  All my twenty-pieces!  All my twenty-pieces!  My yellow stuff!  Will you see Chalmers, sissy?  Call him Chalmers.  He’s Lockwin, just the same, but call him Chalmers.”

The wife kisses her husband, and puts the letter back in the drawer.

“Sissy.”

“Yes.”

“I forgot one thing.  Git a little mourning handkerchief out of my hip-pocket.  There ain’t no gun there.  You needn’t be afraid.”

The woman at last secures a handkerchief which looks the worse for Corkey’s long, though reverent, custody.

“Wash it, sissy, and show it up to Mrs. Lockwin.  I reckon it will steer her back to the day when she felt pretty good toward me.  Be careful of that Harpwood.  He ain’t no use.  I know it.  She give me that wipe her own self—­yes, she did!  God bless her.”

The woman once more kisses the sick man.

“The gold, sissy!”

“Never mind it,” she says.

“You think it’s some good—­this letter—­don’t you, sissy?”

“Of course I do.”

“I’m much obliged to you, sissy.  Let in those people, now.”

The doctor enters.  Corkey is at ease.  He sinks into the wet pillow.  He closes his eyes.

“Did Chalmers come?” asks the physician.

“Never mind him,” says Corkey faintly.

The night goes on.  The yellow lights still color the telegraph-room.  At 3 o’clock the copy boy enters hurriedly.

“Corkey just died,” he says, electrifying the comrades.  “He just gave one of his most awful sneezes, and it killed him right off.  The doctor says he burst a vein.”

Eighty lights are burning in the composing-room.  Eighty compositors—­cross old dogs, most of them—­are ending a long and weary day’s toil.  There are bunches of heads rising over the cases in eager inquiry.

“Corkey’s sneeze killed him!” says Slug I.

“Glad of it,” growls one cross dog.

“Glad of it,” growls another cross dog

“Glad of it,” goes from alley to alley about the broad floor.

“Who’s got 48 X?” inquires the man with the last piece of copy.  It is the end of Corkey’s obituary.

“This will be a scoop,” says the copy-cutter.

The father of the chapel has written some handsome resolutions to make the article longer.

“Come up here, all you fellows!  Chapel meeting!”

The resolutions are passed with a mighty “Aye!” They are already in type.  A long subscription paper for the widow finds ready signers.  No one stands back.