anted to climb back.

Now the red fire is gone and Corkey can think. He believes he is
drowning. "It's because I wasn't a real sailor," he argues. "The
sailors knew better."

Something pulls him. It is the rope which he holds. He knows now that
he has a yawl on the end of that line. He pulls and pulls--and comes
up to the air, a choking, sneezing, exceedingly active human being.
The yawl is riding the water. He rolls into the boat at the prow. He
feels quickly for the oars and finds two that are in their locks.
Water is deep in the bottom. There is nothing to bail with.

But the joy of the little man is keen. "I'm saved! That's what I am!
I'm saved!"

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.

"Bail, you moke!" he screams, as the tide goes against him.

The