He could be the new type of public servant, the
clean, strong, fearless, idolized young Moses, predestined to lead a
tired people into the promised land of political purity. Once more a
white meadow of eager faces rolled out before the eye of his mind; and
this time, from the buntinged hustings, he did not extol learning with
classic periods, but excoriated political dishonesty in red-hot phrases
which jerked the throngs to their feet, frenzied with ardor....
And it was while he was still in this vein of thought, as it happened,
that Colonel Cowles, at eleven o'clock on the first night of June,
dropped dead in his bathroom, and left the _Post_ without an editor.
XIX
_The Little House on Duke of Gloucester Street; and the Beginning
of Various Feelings, Sensibilities, and Attitudes between two
Lonely Men._
One instant thought the news of the Colonel's death struck from nearly
everybody's mind: _He'll miss the Reunion_. For within a few days the
city was to witness that yearly gathering of broken armies which, of all
assemblages among men, the Colonel had loved most dearly.
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