sham sailors like Corkey are to make any effort, beyond fastening
pieces of wood about their waists.

"I wonder if I'd come out here for this if I'd got onto it?" Then the
grim features relax. "I wonder if his nobs would?"

Corkey's feet rest on the prow of the small boat. He asks if he
fastened that rope securely at the cleat. He has asked that all the
way down. Perhaps the steamer is not going to sink.

"Whoopy!"

Corkey is under the steamer's side, deep in the waves. He goes down
suddenly, cold, frightened, benumbed. He feels that some one is trying
to pull the rope out of his hands. It must be Lockwin. The drowning
man clutches with a hundred forces. The tug increases. The struggling
man will lose the rope. Lockwin is striking Corkey with a bludgeon.
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.
He cuts the rope far above him and he falls in the sea, the entire
scope of his life passing in a red fire before his eyes.