Corkey's face is hard and black. He rises. He feels ill. He swears
at the mascot. "I _thought_ he had too many points when I see him."

The train is late. The propeller, Africa, lies at the dock ready to
start.

"Well, if I come to such a place as this I must expect a jackleg
railroad. They say they've got an old tub there at the dock. Good
stiff fall breeze, too."

The thought of danger resuscitates Corkey. He finds some sailors,
tells them how he was elected to Congress, slaps them on the back,
tries to split the bar with his fist, a feat which has often won votes,
and tightens his heart with raw Canadian whisky.

"Going to be rough, Corkey."

"'Spose so," nods Corkey. "Is she pretty good?"

"The Africa?"

"Um-huh!"

"Oh, well, she's toted me often enough. She's like the little nig they
carry."

"Does that mascot sail with her?"

"To be sure."