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Updated: May 28, 2025
A hospital, now, ain't so bad. You could take his name off it. They'll do that some day, anyhow, I reckon. I've seen the name changed on a good many signs in Chicago. But what's a monument good for after the duck has showed up? Old man, wouldn't it be a sensation? Seven columns!" Corkey slaps his leg. He quakes his head. The little tongue plays about the black tobacco. He sneezes.
"Can't you get us re-instated?" they implore, in eager hope. "The man," says Corkey, judicially, "who don't know no better than to send that shipwreck as it was well, excuse me, gentlemen, but he ought to get fired, I suppose." Corkey stands sidewise to the bar, his hand on the glass. He looks with affection on the mascot and ruminates.
Thus it is rare a man is so really great as Corkey.
"You've had your allowance, Bob; mind, we're on short commons now," said Baldwin Burr, who superintended the distribution of provisions, and served out a measured quantity to every man. "There's your grog for you." Bob Corkey growled a little as he wiped his knife on his leg, and accepted the allowance of "grog," which, however, was only pure water.
The druggist carries the empty graduate to the water sink. He rinses it. His heart beats with the greatest joy it has ever known. He returns the graduate to the prescription counter. "It is a good scheme, Corkey." "You bet it is. Chalmers, just fill that thimble-rig once more. It don't hold three fingers, nohow. Hurry, for I got to go to the north pier right off.
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.
The vari-colored slate shingles are going on the roof. Her eye returns in satisfaction to the glittering black granite letters over the portal. "A magnificent hospital," says an approving press, "the very dream of an intelligent philanthropy." David Lockwin is not dead. Look into his heart and see what was there while he sat beside Corkey on the lounge in the forecabin of the Africa.
Then Corkey returns and interpolates a column death scene on the raft. "Too bad there wasn't no starving," he laments. "I was hungry enough to starve." The boat comes ashore in the breakers, and as the result of an all-night's struggle with the muse of conventionality Corkey has seven columns of double-leaded copy.
She rise up big right afore me, and come nigh swearing she would kill such a David Lockwin on sight. There wasn't no such a David Lockwin at all. Her husband was a nobleman. She wished I was fit to black his boots do you mind? and you bet your sweet life I was gitting pretty hot myself!" The thought of it sets Corkey coughing.
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.
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