The man grows murderous.
"Easy enough. Somebody slap his jaw and get him in a fight. Oh, he'll fight quick enough. Then three or four of 'em tip him into the lake. Why, it ain't even the lake out here. It's Georgian Bay. It's out of the world, too. My father was in Congress. My grandfather was in. Wonder how they got there? Wonder if they did any dirt?"
Corkey's face is hard and black. He rises. He feels ill. He swears at the mascot. "I thought he had too many points when I see him."
The train is late. The propeller, Africa, lies at the dock ready to start.
"Well, if I come to such a place as this I must expect a jackleg railroad. They say they've got an old tub there at the dock. Good stiff fall breeze, too."
The thought of danger resuscitates Corkey. He finds some sailors, tells them how he was elected to Congress, slaps them on the back, tries to split the bar with his fist, a feat which has often won votes, and tightens his heart with raw Canadian whisky.
"Going to be rough, Corkey."
"'Spose so," nods Corkey. "Is she pretty good?"
"The Africa?"
"Um-huh!"