He thinks he hears a new noise--a great sough--the pouring of waters. He is moved sidewise in his boat. He wipes the mist from his eyes and peers in all directions for the ship.
"Where in God's name is she?" It is the most frightful thought Corkey has ever entertained.
The Africa has gone down. It is as sure as that Corkey sits in the yawl, safe for the moment. The spirit of the man sinks with the ship, and then rides high again.
"They're nothing to me!" he says. "I'm the only contestant, too!"
He is too brave. The thought seems sacrilegious. He grows faint with fear! All alone on Georgian Bay!
The boat leaps and settles, leaps and settles. The oars fly in his face, and are jerked away. The boat falls on something solid. What is that? It hits the boat again. An oar flies out of Corkey's hand. His hand seizes the gunwale for security. A warmer hand is felt. Corkey pulls on the hand--a head--a kinky head--comes next. The thing is alive, and is welcome. Corkey pulls with both hands. A small form comes over the gunwale just as a wave strikes the side of the yawl with the only noise that can be heard. The yawl does not capsize. The boy begins bailing with his hands.
It is the mascot. "Hooray!" cries the man. His confidence returns. He hears the boy paddling the water. The rebellious oars are seized with hope, but Corkey feels as if he were high on a fractious horse,
"Bail, you moke!" he commands in tones that are heard for a hundred yards.
"Bail, you cross-eyed, left-handed, two-thumbed, six-toed, stuttering moke!"
The boy paddles with his hands. The man, by spasmodic efforts, holds the boat against the wind for a minute, and then loses his control.