"Did you tell 'em I got you fine?" asks Corkey.
"I told them I thought you had as good a case as I had."
"Did you tell 'em I'd knock seventeen kinds of stuffin' out of their whole party? That I'd--"
Corkey is at his wits ends. His challenge has been accepted. At the outset he had saved fifty twenty-dollar gold pieces out of his wages. He has spent fifteen already. The thought of a contest against the machine candidate carries with it the loss of the rest of the little hoard. He has boasted that he will retain Emery Storrs, the eminent advocate. Corkey grows black in the face. He hiccoughs. He strangles.
He unburdens himself with a supreme sneeze. The mate enters the cabin.
"I knew that sneeze would wreck us!" he cries savagely.
"Is your old tub sinking?" asks Corkey, in retort.
"That's what she is!" replies the mate.
Corkey looks like a man relieved. Politics is off his mind. He will not be laughed at on the docks now.
"Pardner, I'm sorry we're in this hole," he says, as the twain rush through the door to the deck. It was dim under that swinging lamp. It is dark out here. The wind is bitter. The second mate stands hard by.