. "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.

Supper is set in the after-cabin. It is nine o'clock before the engine
moves. There are few at table. After supper Corkey and Lockwin enter
the forward cabin and take a sofa that sits across the little room.
The sea is rough, but the motion of the boat is least felt at this
place.

Lockwin has the appearance of a man who is utterly unwilling to be
happy. Corkey has regarded this demeanor as a political wile.

"I'll fetch this feller!" Corkey has observed to himself.

But on broaching the question of politics, the commodore has found that
Lockwin is scarcely able to speak. He sinks in profound meditation,
and is slowly recalled to the most obvious matters.

The genial Corkey is puzzled. "He's going to resign, sure. He beats
me--this feller does."

The boat lunges and groans. It lurches sidewise three or four times,
and there are sudden moans of the sick on all sides beyond thin wooden
partitions.

"I bet he gits sick," says Corkey. "Pard, are ye sick now? Excuse me,
Mr. Lockwin, but are ye sick any?"

"No," says Lockwin, and he is not sick. He wishes he were.

"Well, let's git to business, then. You must excuse me, but--"

Corkey is seized with a paroxysm. He gives a screeching sneeze, and
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 contestan