“Take those seats,” she says.

But Corkey must pull himself together.  This affair is compromising the great Corkey himself.  He does not sit.  He must begin.

“Me and this coon, madam, we suppose you want to hear how Mr. Lockwin cashed in—­how he—­”

“You, of course, are Mr. Corkey, my husband’s political opponent?”

“That’s what I am, or was, madam; and you ain’t no sorrier for that than me.”

“The boy and you escaped?”

“I guess so.”

“Now, Mr. Corkey, tell me why Mr. Lockwin went to Owen Sound?”

“I can’t do that, nohow; and the less said about it the better.  It would let a big political cat out of the bag.”

“Politics!  Was that the reason?”

“That’s what it was, your honor, madam.”

“Can you tell me something about my poor husband?”

It is a figure that by its mere presence over-awes Corkey.  Of all women, he admires the heroic mold.  The garb is black beyond the man’s conception of mourning.  The face is chastened with days of mental torture.  There is an intoxication of grief in the aspect of the woman that hangs the house in woe.

The mascot slips away from Corkey.  The Special Survivor is drifting into an open sea of sentiment.  He feels he shall drown.

Yet the beautiful face seems to take pity on him—­seems to read the heart which beats under that burry, bristly form—­seems to reach forth a hand.

“Exactly as we catched onto Lockwin,” thinks the grateful Corkey.

“It comes mighty hard for me, Mrs. Lockwin, for I never expected to be his friend, nohow.  He was an aristocratic duck, and I will say that I thought it was his bar’l that beat me.”

The widow is striving so hard to understand that the man speaks more slowly.

“But I meet him at Owen Sound.  Between you and me he was to fix me—­see?”

The woman does not see.

“You mustn’t say it to nobody, but I went to Georgian Bay to show him my slate.”

“Is it politics?”

“That’s what it is, and it’s mighty dirty work.  But I don’t think your husband was no politician.”

It is a compliment, and the woman so receives it.

“He was late, and the old tub was rubbing the pier away when the jackleg train arrive.”

“The st-st-steamer was wa-wa-waiting,” explained the boy.

“Ah! yes,” nods the listener.

“You see, the coon can’t talk,” says Corkey, “but he’s got any number of points.  Well, we wet our whistles, and it’s raw stuff they sell over there—­but you don’t know nothing about that.  I introduce him to the outfit, and we go aboard.  We eat, but he don’t eat nothing.  I notice that.  We take the lounge in the fore-cabin.  You know where that would be?”

A nod, and Corkey is well pleased.

“We sit there all the time.  I want to tell you just how he did.  He sit back, out straight, like this, his hands deep in his pockets, his legs crossed onto each other, his hat down, and his chin way down—­see?”