David Lockwin--The People's Idol Part 16

"The Africa?"

"Um-huh!"

"Oh, well, she's toted me often enough. She's like the little nig they carry."

"Does that mascot sail with her?"

"To be sure."

"That settles it. Landlord, give us that sour mash."

"Train's coming!"

The drinks are hurriedly swallowed and paid for, and the men are off for the depot near by.

"How are ye, Lockwin?" "How-dy-do, Corkey. Where have you got me?

Going to murder me and get to Congress in my place?"

"No, but I expect you're going to resign and let me in."

"Where's your boat? I hear they're waiting. I suppose we can get supper on board. Why did you choose such a place as this?"

"Well, cap, I had a long slate to fix up when I came here. If I was to be collector, of course I want to make my pile out of it, and I must take care of the boys. But I didn't start out to be collector, and I've about failed to make any slate at all. Yet, if I'm to sell out to you folks, I reckon I couldn't do it on any boat in the open lakes.

I'm not sure but Georgian Bay is purty prominent. Captain Grant, this is Mr. Lockwin, of Chicago. This is the captain of the Africa. Mr.

Bodine, Mr. Lockwin, of Chicago. Mr. Bodine is station-keeper here.

Mr. Troy, Mr. Lockwin. Mr. Troy keeps the hotel. Mr. Flood, Mr.

Lockwin. Mr. Flood runs the bank and keeps the postoffice and general store."

The group nears the hotel.

Corkey is seized with a paroxysm of tobacco strangling, ending with a sneeze that is a public event. He is again black in the face, but he has been polite.

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 would get to strangling and then would end with a sneeze that would carry the house. It's great!"

"That's what it is!" says Mr. Bodine.

"Gentlemen, my father had it. It's no laughing matter. G.o.d sakes, how that does shake a man!"

But Corkey has not only done the polite act. He has relieved his mind.

He is no longer in danger of being worked off.

"I wouldn't be likely to do up my man if I introduced him to everybody."

Yet the opportunity to murder Lockwin, as a theoretical proposition, dwells with Corkey, now that he is clearly innocent.

"I might have given him a false name. He'd a had to stand it, because he don't like this business nohow. Everything was favorable. Have we time for a drink, cap'n?" The last sentence aloud.

The captain looks at the hotel-keeper. The captain also sells the stuff aboard. But will the captain throw a stone into Mr. Troy's bar?

"I guess we have time," nods the captain.

The party drinks. The gale rises. One hundred wood-choppers, bound for Thunder Bay, go aboard. The craft rubs her fenders and strains the wavering pier. It is a dark night and cold.

"No sailor likes a north wind," says Corkey.

"I have no reason to like it," says Lockwin.

"I'll bet he couldn't be done up so very easy after all," thinks Corkey with a quick, loud guttural bark, due to his tobacco. "I wonder why he looks so blue? It can't be they won't trade at Washington."

The thought of no office at all frightens the marine reporter. He asks himself why he did not put the main question at the depot before the other folks met Lockwin. The paroxysm has made a coward of Corkey. He gets mental satisfaction by thoughts of the weather. The mate of the Africa is muttering that they ought to tie up for the night.

"What ye going to do?" asks Corkey of Captain Grant.

"The captain is well sprung with sour mash," says Corkey to himself.

"We're going to take these choppers to Thunder Bay to-night," says the captain with an oath.

Supper is set in the after-cabin. It is nine o'clock before the engine moves. There are few at table. After supper Corkey and Lockwin enter the forward cabin and take a sofa that sits across the little room.

The sea is rough, but the motion of the boat is least felt at this place.

Lockwin has the appearance of a man who is utterly unwilling to be happy. Corkey has regarded this demeanor as a political wile.

"I'll fetch this feller!" Corkey has observed to himself.

But on broaching the question of politics, the commodore has found that Lockwin is scarcely able to speak. He sinks in profound meditation, and is slowly recalled to the most obvious matters.

The genial Corkey is puzzled. "He's going to resign, sure. He beats me--this feller does."

The boat lunges and groans. It lurches sidewise three or four times, and there are sudden moans of the sick on all sides beyond thin wooden part.i.tions.

"I bet he gits sick," says Corkey. "Pard, are ye sick now? Excuse me, Mr. Lockwin, but are ye sick any?"

"No," says Lockwin, and he is not sick. He wishes he were.

"Well, let's git to business, then. You must excuse me, but--"

Corkey is seized with a paroxysm. He gives a screeching sneeze, and the cries of the sick grow furious.

"Who _is_ that?" asks the mate, peering out of his room and then going on deck.

David Lockwin is at the end of his forces. This is life. This is politics. This is expediency. This is the way men become ill.u.s.trious.

He straightens his legs, sinks his chin and pushes his hands far in his pockets.

"Before I begin," says Corkey, "let me tell ye, that if you're sick I'd keep off the decks. You have a gold watch. Some one might nail ye."

"Is that so?" asks Lockwin, his thoughts far away.