“Bail, you moke!  Let the other fellows fish for the floaters!”

It inspires Corkey, this frequent admonition of the boy.  But the boat cavorts dizzily.

“Bail, you moke!  You black devil!  Don’t you forget it!” The oars go fast and furious, often in the air, and each time with a volley of oaths.

The wood-chopper has seized a man.  It is another wood-chopper.  There are now four souls in the boat.

It leaps less like an athlete.

It has been half an hour since the Africa went down.  There still are cries.  To all these, Corkey replies:  “Come on! all you fellers that has life-preservers!” But it is incredible that any more should get in the yawl.

Nevertheless, one, two, three, four, five, six wood-choppers arrive in the next half-hour, and all are saved.  Tugging for dear life, Corkey holds his boat against the wind.

“There!” cries the commander.  “I strike him again!”

A wood-chopper this time grasps a floating man who can make little effort for himself.  A half-dozen pair of hands bring him aboard.  He sinks on a seat.  The boat is now full.  It leaps less lightly.  The commander is jubilant.  He thinks himself safe.  He returns to his favorite topic, the mascot.

“You’re from the Africa, ain’t you?  Bail, you moke!  He-oh-he!  Golly, that was a big one!”

“Yessah!”

“You’re Noah.  Good name!  Fine name!  Where’s Ararat?  He-oh-he!”

“Never seed a-a-airy-rat.”

“Bail, you moke!  Don’t you give me more o’ your lip!  Bail, you little devil!  Don’t you see—­he-oh—­Godsakes!  Lookout!  Bail, all you fellers!  Other side!  Quick!  It’s no good!  Hang on!  All you fellers.”

The boat is turning.  Hands grasp the gunwale.  The gunwale sinks.  Hands rise.  The back of the boat rolls toward them.  The hands scramble and pat the back of the boat.  The gunwale comes over.  The boat is right side up.  She still leaps.  She still struggles to be free.  Hand after hand lets go.  Six hands remain.  The boat rises and ends about.  Then the bow rises; next the stern.  The yawl strives persistently to shake free from the daring creatures who have so far escaped the Africa and the storm.  The boy turns on the gunwale, as it were a trapeze.  He opens the locker.  He finds a tin pie-plate.  He bails.

Corkey gets in.

“Lord of heavens!” he ejaculates, “that was a close call.  Them wood-choppers!  They was no earthly use.”

Two hands are yet on the gunwale.

“Suppose we can git him in?”

“Yessah!” stammers the boy.

The unknown man is evidently wounded, but is more active than when he was first picked up.

Every wood-chopper is gone.  There are no sounds in Georgian Bay other than the noises of the boat, the wind and the great waves.  There were 117 souls on the Africa.  Now 114 are drowned.  They perished like rats in a trap.