"Yessah!"

"There's the house now. They say he thought a powerful lot of her. Is
there a saloon anywhere near?"

The twain look in vain for a beer sign, and resume their journey. They
ascend the steps.

"There ain't no yawl up here! This is worse than the Africa. I
believe I ain't so solid with myself as I was before she founder. Open
that valve!"

Noah pulls the bell. There is no retreat now. Faces are peering from
every window. Museum managers are on guard at the ends of the street.
The story of Corkey and his mascot is on every tongue in Chicago.

Esther Lockwin opens the door. Corkey had hoped he might have a moment
of grace. At best there is a hindrance in his voice. Now he is
speechless.

"Step in," she says.

He rolls a huge quid of tobacco to the other side of his face, and then
falls in a second panic. He introduces his first finger in his mouth
as if it were a grappling iron and extracts the black tobacco. He
trots down a step or two and heaves the tobacco into the street,
resisting, at the last moment, a temptation to hit a mark. He returns
up the steps, a bunchy figure, in an enormously heavy, chinchilla,
short coat, with blue pantaloons,