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Updated: June 29, 2025
The months go by without event. Corkey has been the earliest caller. "Saw your sign," he says; "recollected the name. Been in New York all the time? I say, old man, want a pardner? I got a clean thousand cases in gold to put in." The druggist has difficulty in withstanding Corkey's offers of capital. Corkey is struck with the idea of business. He has taken a strong fancy to Chalmers.
Only sham sailors like Corkey are to make any effort, beyond fastening pieces of wood about their waists. "I wonder if I'd come out here for this if I'd got onto it?" Then the grim features relax. "I wonder if his nobs would?" Corkey's feet rest on the prow of the small boat. He asks if he fastened that rope securely at the cleat. He has asked that all the way down.
That is unfair! There is a last pull, and Corkey comes up out of the waves. What has happened? The Africa has rolled nearly over, but is righting. Corkey's wits return. "I've lost my knife!" he cries, in bitter disappointment. But, lo! his knife is in his hands. He can with difficulty unloose his fingers from the rope. The Africa is listing upon him again. He dreads that abyss of waters.
The victorious newspaper is out and on the streets the greatest chronicle of any age the most devout function of the most conventional epoch of civilization. The night editors of all other city newspapers look with livid faces on that front page. They scan the true and succinct account of Corkey's interview, which reaches them an hour later.
In a chorus the leader may tell you one singer is worth all the rest. So, if Corkey were in this parlor, and should render one unforeseen, unpremeditated sneeze, you would not know the parlorful had sneezed along with him. Corkey's sneeze is unapproachable, unrivaled, hated, feared, admired, reverenced. The devout say "God bless you!" with deep unction.
When Corkey's dispatch is ready he joins it to a sheet of the Covode Investigation, and therefore the operator has been busy on one dispatch all the time. The night editor of Corkey's paper begins getting the Covode Investigation from Wiarton. He enjoins the foreman to start more type-setters. Reprint copy is freely set all night, and at dawn the real stuff begins to arrive. "Appalling Calamity.
I'm much obliged to you all. I'm out of politics. They got all my stuff. I'm worried over a friend, too." "Too bad, Corkey, too bad." These editors, whose very food is the human drama, have not lost sight of the terrible chapter of Corkey's activity, anxiety and inevitable disappointment. "Too bad, isn't it!" the telegraph editor says. "Had any fires?"
The newspaper with the widest circulation must have the longest string of type and the blackest letters in its headings. Corkey works for that paper. "Give us your full story," demand his four saviors. The mascot stammers so that communication with him is restricted to his answers of yes and no. It is therefore Corkey's duty to the nation to tell all he has witnessed. He conceals nothing.
Corkey's right hand is in his side pocket. He ruminates. He feels an unfamiliar thing in his pocket. He draws out a dainty white-and-black handkerchief. There is a painful reaction in his mind. "I'll burn that female wipe right now!" he says. "Yessah." The stove is for soft coal and stands open. Corkey advances to toss the handkerchief in the fire.
"And all the good work didn't cost nothing, either," thinks Corkey. Would it not be wise now to keep the $700 that remain? When the vision of a contest, with Emery Storrs as advocate, had crossed poor Corkey's mind on the Africa, the Contestant could see that his gold was to be lost. He could not retreat without disgrace. Now he need not advance.
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