The victorious newspaper is out and on the streets--the greatest
chronicle of any age--the most devout function of the most conventional
epoch of civilization.

The night editors of all other city newspapers look with livid faces on
that front page. They scan the true and succinct account of Corkey's
interview, which reaches them an hour later. They indignantly throw it
in the waste-basket, cut off the correspondents by telegraph, and
proceed hurriedly to re-write the front page of their exemplar.

The able editor comes down the next day and writes a leader on the
great shipwrecks of past times, the raft scene and the heroism of
Corkey.

Corkey and his mascot are still at Wiarton. Corkey is superintending
the search for the yawl and Lockwin's body.

Superintending the search is but a phrase. Corkey is exhibiting his
mascot, pounding on the hotel bar and accepting the congratulations of
all who will take a drink.

The four correspondents fall back on the Special Survivor and hope for
sympathy.

"We have been discharged by our papers," they cry in bitter anger and
deep chagrin.

"Can't you get us re-instated?" they implore, in eager hope.