the outfit, and we go aboard. We eat, but he don't eat nothing. I
notice that. We take the lounge in the fore-cabin. You know where
that would be?"

A nod, and Corkey is well pleased.

"We sit there all the time. I want to tell you just how he did. He
sit back, out straight, like this, his hands deep in his pockets, his
legs crossed onto each other, his hat down, and his chin way down--see?"

Corkey is regaining his presence of mind.

The widow attests the correctness of Corkey's illustration.

"You bet your sweet life, nobody could get nothing out of him, then.
What ailded him I don't know, and I ain't calling the turn, but nobody
could get nothing out of him, I know that. I talk and talk. I slap
him on the shoulder, and pull his leg and sing to him--"

"S-s-say it over," suggests the mascot.

The widow cannot understand.

"Why, don't you know, I was expecting him to fix me?"

"Is it politics?"

"That's what it _is_. So I guess I sing to him an hour--two hours--I
can't tell--when he comes to. 'Mr. Corkey,' says that feller--says Mr.
Lockwin--'you don't get nothing; You don't get the light at Ozaukee.'