"The man," says Corkey, judicially, "who don't know no better than to
send that shipwreck as it was--well, excuse me, gentlemen, but he ought
to get fired, I suppose." Corkey stands sidewise to the bar, his hand
on the glass. He looks with affection on the mascot and ruminates.
Then he brings his adamantine fist down on the bar to the peril of all
glassware.

"Yes, sir! Now I was out on that old tub. I was right there when she
drapped in the drink. If anybody might make it just as it was, I
might--mightn't I?"

"You might," they answer in admiration of a great man.

"Well, I didn't do no such foolish thing as you fellows, did I?"

"But why didn't you tell us, Mr. Corkey?"

"That isn't what my paper hired me to do. Is it, you cow-licked,
cross-eyed, two-thumbed, six-toed stuttering moke?"

There is a terrifying report of knuckles on the counter. There are
signs of strangling and a sneeze.

"N--n--n--noah," stammers the faithful son of swart Afric.




BOOK II