And the man goes out to victory whistling the lament of the crooning witch, "Back to Our Mountains! Back to Our Mountains!"
"Why should Davy be so fond of that?" thinks the whistler.
But this week of campaign cannot stretch out forever. It must end, just as Lockwin feels that another speech had killed him. It must end with Lockwin's nerves agog, so that when a book falls over on the shelves he starts like a deer at a shot.
It is Monday night, and there will be no speeches by the candidates. Esther has prepared to celebrate the evening by a gathering of a half-dozen intimate friends to hear an eminent violinist, whose performances are the delight of Chicago. The violinist is doubly eminent because he has a wife who is devoted to her husband's renown.
Lockwin sits on a sofa with his pet nestled at the side. What a sense of rest is this! How near heaven is this! He looks down on his little boy and has but one wish--that he might be across the room to behold the picture. Perhaps the man is extravagantly fond of that view of curly head, white face, dark brow and large, clear eyes!
Would the violinist make such an effect if his wife were not there to strike those heavy opening chords of that "Faust" fantasie?
"Will they play 'Back to Our Mountains?'" whispers the child.
"Keep still, Davy," the man says, himself silenced by a great rendition.
"The doctor's horse is sick," whispers Davy, hoarsely.
"Yes, I know," says the man. "Bravo, professor, bravo! You are a great artist."