If Corkey wore a life-preserver he would be lost.

Now is he on a sand-bar? This is his last and most prostrating fear.
Step by step he moves toward the point. The waves dash over his head,
as they dash over the yawl. Step by step he learns that he is safe.

The boat is gone forever.

The water grows shallower. The great sea goes by. The bay beyond may
look black now Corkey has escaped its jaws.

He puts down the lad.

"Walk, you moke!" he commands.

The twain labor hand in hand to the point.

The man sinks like a drunkard upon the sands wet with the tempest.

When Corkey regains his senses four men are lifting him in a wagon.
The mascot sits on the front seat.

Four newspaper reporters want his complete account.




CHAPTER XIV

IN THE CONVENTIONAL DAYS