grows scornful, laconic, boastful. Corkey is himself again. The
barkeeper goes to the oil-room for a small bottle.

The handsome eyes of the navigator rest on his protege. The head sets
up a vibration something like the movement of a rattlesnake before it
strikes. The little tongue plays about the black tobacco. The speech
comes forth.

"It's a great act I play on the widow about the 'last words'. He
didn't say nothing of the kind. I come near putting my foot right into
it."

"Yessah!"

Corkey's right hand is in his side pocket. He ruminates. He feels an
unfamiliar thing in his pocket. He draws out a dainty white-and-black
handkerchief. There is a painful reaction in his mind.

"I'll burn that female wipe right now!" he says.

"Yessah."

The stove is for soft coal and stands open. Corkey advances to toss
the handkerchief in the fire.

His eyes meet the crooked and quizzical orbs of the mascot.

"You mourning-colored moke!"

There is a huge threat in the deliverance.