David Lockwin--The People's Idol Part 18

He must make his descent knife in hand.

"I can't do it!" he says, and gets out his knife. It is a large fur-handled hunting knife--like Corkey in its style.

Corkey peers down on deck. The wood-choppers are fastening life-preservers about their bodies. Whether they be crying or shouting, cannot be told.

He sees human forms hurrying past the cabin window, and there is reflected the yellow, wooden, ribby thing which he knows to be a life-preserver.

It is a cheering thing in such a moment. "I wish I had one," he says, but he holds to the rope of his boat.

There is no crew, in the proper sense of the word. Not an officer or man on board feels a responsibility for the lives of the pa.s.sengers.

As at a country summer resort, each person must wait on himself.

"n.o.body is better'n we are," says the captain.

The Africa is rapidly foundering.

"She must be as rotten as punk," sneers Corkey. He thinks of his cheerful desk at the newspaper office. He thinks of his marine register. He tries to recall the rating of this hulk of an Africa.

"Anyhow, it is tough!" he laments.

The wind is perhaps less boisterous since the engine slacked. The rays of light from the cabin lamps pierce and split the waves. Corkey never saw so much foam before.

"It's an easy good-bye for all of us," he says, and falls ill.

But shall he wait for the Africa to settle?

"She'll pull me down, sure!" he comments.

Shall he wait much longer, then?

"All them roosters will be up here, and then we can't do nothing. Yet I wish I had somebody with me. Oh, Lockwin! I say, h.e.l.lo! Old man!

Lockwin! Come up this way!"

For a moment there is nothing to be heard but the furious whistling of the gale about the mast in front. There is n.o.body in the wheel-house to the best of Corkey's eyesight.

There are three or four booming sounds. Corkey is startled. They are repeated.

It is the yawl making its hollow sound.

But there are no noises of human beings. "Oddest thing I ever see!"

says Corkey. "I didn't know a s.h.i.+pwreck was like this. Everything is different from what is printed--Lord save me!"

The Africa is rolling.

"Here goes!" It is now or never.

Corkey has short, tough fingers. He grasps that rope like a vise. He wraps his left leg well in the coils. He kicks the steamer with his right. The small boat does not touch the water when the steamer is sitting straight in the sea.

It is a horrible turmoil in which to enter. Perhaps he came down too soon!

"I wish I had some one with me now. Mebbe the two of us would get an advantage."

The second mate looks over the gunwale from the prow of the steamer.

He knows a land-lubber is handling a yawl.

"D---- fool!" he mutters.

In the Georgian Bay, if the s.h.i.+p go down, all hands are to drown. Only sham sailors like Corkey are to make any effort, beyond fastening pieces of wood about their waists.

"I wonder if I'd come out here for this if I'd got onto it?" Then the grim features relax. "I wonder if his n.o.bs would?"

Corkey's feet rest on the prow of the small boat. He asks if he fastened that rope securely at the cleat. He has asked that all the way down. Perhaps the steamer is not going to sink.

"Whoopy!"

Corkey is under the steamer's side, deep in the waves. He goes down suddenly, cold, frightened, benumbed. He feels that some one is trying to pull the rope out of his hands. It must be Lockwin. The drowning man clutches with a hundred forces. The tug increases. The struggling man will lose the rope. Lockwin is striking Corkey with a bludgeon.

That is unfair! There is a last pull, and Corkey comes up out of the waves.

What has happened? The Africa has rolled nearly over, but is righting.

Corkey's wits return. "I've lost my knife!" he cries, in bitter disappointment. But, lo! his knife is in his hands. He can with difficulty unloose his fingers from the rope.

The Africa is listing upon him again. He dreads that abyss of waters.

He cuts the rope far above him and he falls in the sea, the entire scope of his life pa.s.sing in a red fire before his eyes.

Beside, there is a drowning thought that he has gone out to die before the rest. At the last, when he swung out as the Africa rolled toward him he wanted 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 s.h.i.+p.

"Where in G.o.d'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 s.h.i.+p, 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.