must
take care of the boys. But I didn't start out to be collector, and
I've about failed to make any slate at all. Yet, if I'm to sell out to
you folks, I reckon I couldn't do it on any boat in the open lakes.
I'm not sure but Georgian Bay is purty prominent. Captain Grant, this
is Mr. Lockwin, of Chicago. This is the captain of the Africa. Mr.
Bodine, Mr. Lockwin, of Chicago. Mr. Bodine is station-keeper here.
Mr. Troy, Mr. Lockwin. Mr. Troy keeps the hotel. Mr. Flood, Mr.
Lockwin. Mr. Flood runs the bank and keeps the postoffice and general
store."

The group nears the hotel.

Corkey is seized with a paroxysm of tobacco strangling, ending with a
sneeze that is a public event. He is again black in the face, but he
has been polite.

The uninitiated express their astonishment at a sneeze so mighty, and
enter the inn. The women of the dining-room come peeping into the
bar-room, But the captain explains:

"That sneeze carried Corkey to Congress. I've heern tell how he'd be
in the middle of a speech and some smart Aleck would do something to
raise the laugh on the gentleman. Corkey would get to strangling and
then would end with a sneeze that would carry the house. It's great!"

"That's what it is!" says Mr. Bodine.

"Gentlemen, my father had it. It's no laughing matter. God sakes, how
that does shake a man!"

But Corkey has not only done the polite act. He has relieved his mind.
He is no longer in danger of being worked off.

"I wouldn't be likely to do up my man if I introduced him to everybody."

Yet the opportunity to murder Lockwin, as a theoretical proposition,
dwells with Corkey, now that he is clearly innocent.

"I might have given him a false name. He'd a had to stand it, because
he don't like this business nohow. Everything was favorable. Have we
time for a drink, cap'n?" The last sentence aloud.

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