David Lockwin--The People's Idol Part 20

A cloud moves by and the morning bursts on the group.

Busy as he is, Corkey is eager to see the man in the stern.

"Holy smoke!" says the oarsman.

"Yessah!" stammers the obedient lad.

The face on the stern seat startles Corkey. The nose is broken, the lips are cut, some of the front teeth are gone and the face has been b.l.o.o.d.y. It is like a wound poulticed white. It has been wet and cold all night.

"Lockwin, isn't it you?" asks Corkey, greatly moved at a sight so affecting.

"It is," signals Lockwin. The voice is inaudible to Corkey.

The head rises and Corkey strains his ear.

"I'm dying, Corkey. G.o.d bless you. I wanted to thank you."

"G.o.d bless you, Lockwin. We're all in the same boat. I'm glad we caught you!"

The mascot moves toward the sinking man.

The head falls again on the stern seat. The body is in ten inches of water.

The boat is moving rapidly.

"Want to send any word home, Lockwin?"

There is a pause. There is an effort to speak of money. There is another effort.

"He s-a-ays put a st-st-stone at Davy's-s-s-s-s grave," interprets the stammerer.

"Who's Davy?" asks the oarsman. "What else did he say?"

"H-h-h-he's dead!" says the lad.

"Bail! bail!" answers the man. "Let's g-g-get 'im out!" suggests the boy in a half-hour. Corkey has been sobbing.

"I thought a heap of Lockwin," he answers.

"I d-d-don't like a d-d-dead man in the boat!"

"Bail, you moke! I'll throw you in!"

But Corkey's voice is far from menacing. Corkey is weak. Now he sees the boy's face in dreadful contortions. The lad is trying to speak quickly, and can make no noise at all.

He rises and points. He is frantic.

"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 s.h.i.+pwreck.

"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.