“I wouldn’t be likely to do up my man if I introduced him to everybody.”

Yet the opportunity to murder Lockwin, as a theoretical proposition, dwells with Corkey, now that he is clearly innocent.

“I might have given him a false name.  He’d a had to stand it, because he don’t like this business nohow.  Everything was favorable.  Have we time for a drink, cap’n?” The last sentence aloud.

The captain looks at the hotel-keeper.  The captain also sells the stuff aboard.  But will the captain throw a stone into Mr. Troy’s bar?

“I guess we have time,” nods the captain.

The party drinks.  The gale rises.  One hundred wood-choppers, bound for Thunder Bay, go aboard.  The craft rubs her fenders and strains the wavering pier.  It is a dark night and cold.

“No sailor likes a north wind,” says Corkey.

“I have no reason to like it,” says Lockwin.

“I’ll bet he couldn’t be done up so very easy after all,” thinks Corkey with a quick, loud guttural bark, due to his tobacco.  “I wonder why he looks so blue?  It can’t be they won’t trade at Washington.”

The thought of no office at all frightens the marine reporter.  He asks himself why he did not put the main question at the depot before the other folks met Lockwin.  The paroxysm has made a coward of Corkey.  He gets mental satisfaction by thoughts of the weather.  The mate of the Africa is muttering that they ought to tie up for the night.

“What ye going to do?” asks Corkey of Captain Grant.

“The captain is well sprung with sour mash,” says Corkey to himself.

“We’re going to take these choppers to Thunder Bay to-night,” says the captain with an oath.

Supper is set in the after-cabin.  It is nine o’clock before the engine moves.  There are few at table.  After supper Corkey and Lockwin enter the forward cabin and take a sofa that sits across the little room.  The sea is rough, but the motion of the boat is least felt at this place.

Lockwin has the appearance of a man who is utterly unwilling to be happy.  Corkey has regarded this demeanor as a political wile.

“I’ll fetch this feller!” Corkey has observed to himself.

But on broaching the question of politics, the commodore has found that Lockwin is scarcely able to speak.  He sinks in profound meditation, and is slowly recalled to the most obvious matters.

The genial Corkey is puzzled.  “He’s going to resign, sure.  He beats me—­this feller does.”

The boat lunges and groans.  It lurches sidewise three or four times, and there are sudden moans of the sick on all sides beyond thin wooden partitions.

“I bet he gits sick,” says Corkey.  “Pard, are ye sick now?  Excuse me, Mr. Lockwin, but are ye sick any?”

“No,” says Lockwin, and he is not sick.  He wishes he were.

“Well, let’s git to business, then.  You must excuse me, but—­”