The captain looks at the hotel-keeper. The captain also sells the
stuff aboard. But will the captain throw a stone into Mr. Troy's bar?

"I guess we have time," nods the captain.

The party drinks. The gale rises. One hundred wood-choppers, bound
for Thunder Bay, go aboard. The craft rubs her fenders and strains the
wavering pier. It is a dark night and cold.

"No sailor likes a north wind," says Corkey.

"I have no reason to like it," says Lockwin.

"I'll bet he couldn't be done up so very easy after all," thinks Corkey
with a quick, loud guttural bark, due to his tobacco. "I wonder why he
looks so blue? It can't be they won't trade at Washington."

The thought of no office at all frightens the marine reporter. He asks
himself why he did not put the main question at the depot before the
other folks met Lockwin. The paroxysm has made a coward of Corkey. He
gets mental satisfaction by thoughts of the weather. The mate of the
Africa is muttering that they ought to tie up for the night.

"What ye going to do?" asks Corkey of Captain Grant.

"The captain is well sprung with sour mash," says Corkey to himself.

"We're going to take these choppers to Thunder Bay to-night," says the
captain with an oath.