“He’s crazy!” thinks Corkey, in alarm.

“L-l-land!” screams the lad.

“That is what it is, unless it’s sucking us in.”  Corkey has heard of mirages in shipwreck.

“It’s land!” he says, a moment later, as he sees a tamarack scrub.

It is, in reality, a long, narrow spit of sand that pushes out above Colpoy’s Bay.  Beyond that point is the black and open Georgian Bay for thirty miles.

The boat will ride by, and at least three hundred yards outside. 
Unless Corkey can get inside, what will become of him?

If he turn away from the wind he will capsize.

On comes the point.  It is the abyss of death beyond.

“We never will get it!” cries the man.

The boy’s face is all contortions.  He is trying to say something.

“Bail, you moke!” commands the man.  But his eyes look imploringly on the peninsula of sand.

The black face grows hideous.  The eyes are white and protrude.  The point is off the stern of the yawl.

“Not d-d-deep!” yells the mascot with an explosion.

“Sure enough!”

“S-s-s-s-see the sand in the wa-wa-ter!”

“Sure enough!”

The idea saves Corkey and the boy.  Over the side Corkey goes.  He touches bottom and is swept off.

The boat drags him.  He catches the boy’s hand.

“Let her go,” is the command, and, boy in arms, Corkey stands on the bottom.  The sea rages as if it were a thousand feet deep.

If Corkey wore a life-preserver he would be lost.

Now is he on a sand-bar?  This is his last and most prostrating fear.  Step by step he moves toward the point.  The waves dash over his head, as they dash over the yawl.  Step by step he learns that he is safe.

The boat is gone forever.

The water grows shallower.  The great sea goes by.  The bay beyond may look black now Corkey has escaped its jaws.

He puts down the lad.

“Walk, you moke!” he commands.

The twain labor hand in hand to the point.

The man sinks like a drunkard upon the sands wet with the tempest.

When Corkey regains his senses four men are lifting him in a wagon. 
The mascot sits on the front seat.

Four newspaper reporters want his complete account.

CHAPTER XIV

IN THE CONVENTIONAL DAYS

One congressman, a hundred wood-choppers and fourteen miscellaneous lives have been lost in Georgian Bay.

It is the epoch of sensational news.  A life is a life.  The valiant night editor places before his readers the loss of 115 congressmen, for a wood-chopper is as good as a congressman.

And while the theory that 115 congressmen have gone down astounds and horrifies the subscriber, it might be different if that many congressmen of the opposite party should really be sent to the bottom.