"Do you suppose she loved her husband as much as it seems?" he asks.
"I wish she'd love me a quarter as much, though I'm a married man. Love him! Well, I should say!"
Corkey tries to be loquacious. But his dark face grows darker.
"Oh! it's bad business. I'm sorry for her, and it knocks me out, I ain't my old self. I got up feeling beautiful, and it just knocks me. I don't think she ought to build no monument, nor no hospital, for it keeps her hoping. What's the use of hoping? I'll find that yawl. Curious about that yawl. Wouldn't it be great stuff if he should show up? Wonder what he'd think of his monument and his hospital? A hospital, now, ain't so bad. You could take his name off it. They'll do that some day, anyhow, I reckon. I've seen the name changed on a good many signs in Chicago. But what's a monument good for after the duck has showed up? Old man, wouldn't it be a sensation? Seven columns!"
Corkey slaps his leg. He quakes his head. The little tongue plays about the black tobacco. He sneezes. The passengers are generally upset.
A substantial woman of fifty, out collecting her rents, expostulates in a sharp voice.
A girl of seventeen laughs in a manner foreboding hysteria.
The conductor flies to the scene.
"None o' that in here!" he cries, frowning majestically on Corkey.
"Don't you be so gay, or I'll get you fired off the road," answers the cause of all the commotion.