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Updated: June 28, 2025
Corkey is feeling about one of these yawls. He suspects that the lines are old. He steps to the other side. He strains at a rope. He strives to unloose it from its cleat. The line is stiff and almost frozen. "I'd be afraid to lower myself, anyhow," he observes, for he has the notion that everything about the Africa is insecure. The ship gives another lurch. Something must be done.
"The New State's Fund Closes," is the latest bulletin. "I got pretty near a thousand cases," says Corkey, "but you bet your sweet life she ain't in no bank. I put my money in the vaults." "Banks are better," says Lockwin. He has a bank-book somewhere in his pockets. He pulls forth a mass of letters gray with wear. The visible letter reads: "HON. DAVID LOCKWIN, Washington, D. C."
And his wife over there crying her eyes out with more money with more money well " Corkey's head vibrates, his tongue whirs, he sneezes. Children, romping on the sidewalk, troop to the door of the druggist to learn what has happened. Corkey looks at the prescription booth. He notes the blue copper water at each corner.
The yawl strives persistently to shake free from the daring creatures who have so far escaped the Africa and the storm. The boy turns on the gunwale, as it were a trapeze. He opens the locker. He finds a tin pie-plate. He bails. Corkey gets in. "Lord of heavens!" he ejaculates, "that was a close call. Them wood-choppers! They was no earthly use." Two hands are yet on the gunwale.
David Lockwin dares not intrust his secret to a chance acquaintance like Corkey, who is completely devoted to Mrs. Lockwin. What man can now be found who will support a possible relation of mutual friend in this singular case? The thought of Dr. Tarpion comes again and again. Clearly a lover cannot wait forever. And he must know whether or not Esther reads the letters.
Corkey takes a seat behind the stove and imitates David Lockwin. The druggist gazes as in a stupor. He steps to his little room and removes the chair. He must not sit and cogitate. "Something ail him. I guess he was crazy." "He must have been," says the druggist, "if he wasn't killed." "Oh, he wasn't killed. Can't tell me. Now, suppose he want to come back to Chicago ain't he in a sweet box?
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.
The uninitiated express their astonishment at a sneeze so mighty, and enter the inn. The women of the dining-room come peeping into the bar-room, But the captain explains: "That sneeze carried Corkey to Congress. I've heern tell how he'd be in the middle of a speech and some smart Aleck would do something to raise the laugh on the gentleman.
Corkey, but I could have told you at the start that the administration, when it was confronted by the question whether or not it would give you anything, said; 'No! It will give you nothing. The administration said it would not appoint you lightkeeper at Ozaukee." "There hain't no light at Ozaukee," says Corkey. "That's what the administration said, too," replies Lockwin.
Corkey should be flung in the sea and well rid of him. As the ship is foundering we will go on deck, but when a man is so conspicuous as David Lockwin, how can he commit suicide how can he disappear? There are words, indistinctly heard. It is Corkey crying to Lockwin to climb up the steps to the hurricane deck. Indeed it is a clever riddance of that uncomfortable man.
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