He is too brave. The thought seems sacrilegious. He grows faint with
fear! All alone on Georgian Bay!

The boat leaps and settles, leaps and settles. The oars fly in his
face, and are jerked away. The boat falls on something solid. What is
that? It hits the boat again. An oar flies out of Corkey's hand. His
hand seizes the gunwale for security. A warmer hand is felt. Corkey
pulls on the hand--a head--a kinky head--comes next. The thing is
alive, and is welcome. Corkey pulls with both hands. A small form
comes over the gunwale just as a wave strikes the side of the yawl with
the only noise that can be heard. The yawl does not capsize. The boy
begins bailing with his hands.

It is the mascot. "Hooray!" cries the man. His confidence returns.
He hears the boy paddling the water. The rebellious oars are seized
with hope, but Corkey feels as if he were high on a fractious horse,

"Bail, you moke!" he commands in tones that are heard for a hundred
yards.

"Bail, you cross-eyed, left-handed, two-thumbed, six-toed, stuttering
moke!"

The boy paddles with his hands. The man, by spasmodic efforts, holds
the boat against the wind for a minute, and then loses his control.

"Bail, you moke!" he screams, as the tide goes against him.

The hands fly faster.