"You see, the coon can't talk," says Corkey, "but he's got any number of points. Well, we wet our whistles, and it's raw stuff they sell over there--but you don't know nothing about that. I introduce him to the outfit, and we go aboard. We eat, but he don't eat nothing. I notice that. We take the lounge in the fore-cabin. You know where that would be?"
A nod, and Corkey is well pleased.
"We sit there all the time. I want to tell you just how he did. He sit back, out straight, like this, his hands deep in his pockets, his legs crossed onto each other, his hat down, and his chin way down--see?"
Corkey is regaining his presence of mind.
The widow attests the correctness of Corkey's illustration.
"You bet your sweet life, nobody could get nothing out of him, then. What ailded him I don't know, and I ain't calling the turn, but nobody could get nothing out of him, I know that. I talk and talk. I slap him on the shoulder, and pull his leg and sing to him--"
"S-s-say it over," suggests the mascot.
The widow cannot understand.
"Why, don't you know, I was expecting him to fix me?"
"Is it politics?"