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So the face that was dark at State street becomes self-satisfied at Prairie avenue. Corkey is picturesque as he raps his cane on the marble stairs. "Bet your sweet life none of this don't scare me!" he soliloquizes, touching the stateliness of the premises. He enters. He comes forth later, meeting another caller in the vestibule.
The thought of danger resuscitates Corkey. He finds some sailors, tells them how he was elected to Congress, slaps them on the back, tries to split the bar with his fist, a feat which has often won votes, and tightens his heart with raw Canadian whisky. "Going to be rough, Corkey." "'Spose so," nods Corkey. "Is she pretty good?" "The Africa?" "Um-huh!" "Oh, well, she's toted me often enough.
"Yes, yes, yes!" growls Corkey. But he never was busier. He is trying to do his work at the office and to get through election week. "Where is Chalmers?" Again Corkey is at the drug store. "See here, my friend, I don't take no street-car way down here to have you do no cunning act. Is Chalmers in town?" "I do not know." The clerk is telling the truth, and is in turn offended.
It inspires Corkey, this frequent admonition of the boy. But the boat cavorts dizzily. "Bail, you moke! You black devil! Don't you forget it!" The oars go fast and furious, often in the air, and each time with a volley of oaths. The wood-chopper has seized a man. It is another wood-chopper. There are now four souls in the boat. It leaps less like an athlete.
Well, as I was a-saying, I want to know what the jam-jorum said." Corkey is terrified. He does not fear that he will go down in Georgian Bay. He dreads to hear the bursting of the bladders that are supporting him in his sea of glory. Lockwin starts as from a waking dream: "I beg your pardon, Mr.
It is my request that the little store and its belongings, including the bank account of Robert Chalmers, so-called, be given to the widow of the late Walter B. Corkey. The bitterness of life is yours. But the bitterness of death is mine. Your husband, who loves you, There is a click at the door. The bride hears it not. The documents fall to the floor.
"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.
I'm going to bring her round to the idea that he's alive." Corkey is earnest. His eyes are sparkling. He is chewing hard on his tobacco. His head is quaking. "He's alive, and so he's a well, he's a no-gooder." "Yes," says the druggist huskily. "But I hate to see her pining away, and I'm going to steer her against the idea that she can get him if she wants him.
He thinks of his cheerful desk at the newspaper office. He thinks of his marine register. He tries to recall the rating of this hulk of an Africa. "Anyhow, it is tough!" he laments. The wind is perhaps less boisterous since the engine slacked. The rays of light from the cabin lamps pierce and split the waves. Corkey never saw so much foam before.
What has kept the short man so many months in silence? Why is it he has never gotten beyond the matter of the lounge in the fore-cabin of the Africa? This afternoon he will speak. It is a good scheme. It can be fixed especially by a woman. "She can stand it if he can," says Corkey, who reckons on the resurrection of David Lockwin.
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