"You're from the Africa, ain't you? Bail, you moke! He-oh-he! Golly,
that was a big one!"

"Yessah!"

"You're Noah. Good name! Fine name! Where's Ararat? He-oh-he!"

"Never seed a-a-airy-rat."

"Bail, you moke! Don't you give me more o' your lip! Bail, you little
devil! Don't you see--he-oh--Godsakes! Lookout! Bail, all you
fellers! Other side! Quick! It's no good! Hang on! All you
fellers."

The boat is turning. Hands grasp the gunwale. The gunwale sinks.
Hands rise. The back of the boat rolls toward them. The hands
scramble and pat the back of the boat. The gunwale comes over. The
boat is right side up. She still leaps. She still struggles to be
free. Hand after hand lets go. Six hands remain. The boat rises and
ends about. Then the bow rises; next the stern. 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."