"The plant has been sprung," they comment, "His barrel is empty."

Corkey had once been rich when he did not know the value of wealth. He
had been reduced to poverty. On becoming a reporter, he had
laboriously saved $1,000 in gold coins. In a few weeks $300 of this
store had been dissipated.

"And all the good work didn't cost nothing, either," thinks Corkey.

Would it not be wise now to keep the $700 that remain? When the vision
of a contest, with Emery Storrs as advocate, had crossed poor Corkey's
mind on the Africa, the Contestant could see that his gold was to be
lost. He could not retreat without disgrace. Now he need not advance.

"You bet I _won't_!" thinks Corkey, as he expresses his regrets that
enforced absence from Chicago will prevent his candidacy.

"You'd be elected!" chime the touching committees.

"You bet I _would_," says Corkey.

"Corkey is too smart," say the touching committees. "Wait till he gets
into politics from the inside. Won't he wolf the candidates!"

Corkey is at last on the shores of Georgian Bay. The weather soon
interferes with the search. But there are no signs of either body or
yawl.

The wreck of the Africa, followed by daily conventional catastrophes,