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Corkey from this moment rejects the collectorship, and stakes all on going to Congress. Thoughts of murdering Lockwin out here in this wilderness come into the man's mind. "I wouldn't do that, nohow. Oh, I'll never be worked off none of that for me!" In Corkey's tongue, to be worked off is to be hanged. "Nixy. I'll never be worked off. But it would be easy to throw him from the deck to-night.
He does not want to be jealous, but time is going by time is going by. That Tarpion! It would be hard! It would be hard! A new thought comes. The disfigured face grows malicious. "It would be bigamy! Ha!" David Lockwin has fallen upon a low place. But he would perish if jealousy must be added. "Corkey's plan is a good one, but why does he not push it faster?
For a moment there is nothing to be heard but the furious whistling of the gale about the mast in front. There is nobody in the wheel-house to the best of Corkey's eyesight. There are three or four booming sounds. Corkey is startled. They are repeated. It is the yawl making its hollow sound. But there are no noises of human beings. "Oddest thing I ever see!" says Corkey.
His eyes meet the crooked and quizzical orbs of the mascot. "You mourning-colored moke!" There is a huge threat in the deliverance. The hook-like finger tears the black tobacco out of the choking mouth. The great quid is thrown in the fire. The proposed motion is made, and the handkerchief is not burned. Down it goes in the hip pocket beside Corkey's revolver, out of harm's way.
Corkey goes to his home. On the night of the fourth day he appears in the yellow light of the telegraph-room. "Commodore, we're sorry for you. Take it easy, and get back to work. No man can live, doing as you've done. You were up all the time, weren't you?" Corkey's light is burning because the other editors need it. He sits with his coat on, his face on his hands, his elbows on the table.
His head quakes and vibrates, his face grows black, the mouth opens into a parallelogram, the sharp little tongue plays about the mass of black tobacco. The convention leaps to its feet. The Sneeze has come. "That settles it!" cry the delegates. "Bounce any man that'll do such a thing as that! Fire him out!" The irresistible movement has reached Corkey's eyrie.
Four faithful Corkeyites are holding Corkey's platform. The assault on these supports, these Atlases, brings the collapse of Corkey. He goes down fighting, and he fights like a hero. One of the toughs who saw Corkey put away his revolver at the primary is badly battered before he can retreat. The melee is a good-sized one.
He will bring up out of the sea of his memory that same short, matter-of-fact recital. The rural interviewers, unused to the needs of the city service faithful to the sources of their news finish the concise tale. It covers a quarter of a column. That will never do for Corkey's paper. He knows it well. He reaches Wiarton. He hurries to the telegraph office. He buys a half-dozen tales of the sea.
"Hain't got nothing to write," Corkey doesn't like to have his report taken out of its customary place. When there are blood-curdling wrecks he wants the news in small type along with his port list. "Hain't got nothing to write," he repeats sullenly. He gapes and stretches. He knows he must obey the telegraph editor. "Hurry! Give it to me. Give me the idea." Corkey's eye brightens.
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.
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