the cries of the sick grow furious.

"Who _is_ that?" asks the mate, peering out of his room and then going
on deck.

David Lockwin is at the end of his forces. This is life. This is
politics. This is expediency. This is the way men become illustrious.
He straightens his legs, sinks his chin and pushes his hands far in his
pockets.

"Before I begin," says Corkey, "let me tell ye, that if you're sick I'd
keep off the decks. You have a gold watch. Some one might nail ye."

"Is that so?" asks Lockwin, his thoughts far away.

"He beats _me_!" comments the contestant. "Well, pard, if you're not
sick, I'd like to say a good many things. I suppose them ducks at
Washington weakened. If they give me collector, here's my slate."

Corkey produces a long list of names, written on copy-paper.

"I bet she don't budge an inch," he remarks, as he hears the north wind
and waves pounding at one end, and the engine pounding at the other.

"Needn't be afraid, pard. Sometimes they go out in Georgian Bay and
burn some coal. Then if they can't git anywhere, they come back."

Corkey is pleased with his own remark. "Sometimes," he adds, "they
don't come back. They are bluffed back by the wind."