“Arch didn’t seem t’ have no answer ready: jus’ stood there eyin’ Jim, stock still as a wooden figger-head, ’cept that he shivered an’ gulped an’ licked his blue lips with a tongue that I ’lowed t’ be as dry as sand-paper. Seemed t’ me, sir, when his muscles begun t’ slack an’ his eyes t’ shift, that he was more scared ’n any decent man ought ever t’ get. But he didn’t say nothin’; nor no more did nobody else. Wasn’t nothin’ t’ _say_. There we was, all friends aboard, reared in near-by harbors. Didn’t seem natural t’ be stewin’ in a mess o’ hate like that. Look you! we _knowed_ Archibald Shott an’ Slow Jim Tool: knowed un, stripped an’ clothed, body an’ soul, an’ _had_, sir, since they begun t’ toddle the roads o’ Jump Harbor. Knowed un? Why, down along afore the _Lads’ Hope_ went ashore on the Barnyard Islands, I slep’ along o’ Jim Tool an’ _poulticed Archibald Shaft’s boils_! Didn’t seem t’ me, sir, when Jim took off his jacket an’ opened his shirt that they was anything more’n sorrow for Arch’s temper brewin’ in his heart. Murder? Never thunk o’ murder; wasn’t used enough t’ murder. I ’lowed, though, that Jim didn’t like the sight o’ the cut where the knife had broke on a rib; an’ I ’lowed he liked the feel of his blood still less, for he got white an’ stupid an’ disgusted when his fingers touched it, jus’ as if he might be sea-sick any minute, an’ he shook hisself an’ coughed, sir, jus’ like a dog eatin’ grass. “‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you got a knife?’ “‘Don’t ’low no one,’ says I, ‘t’ clean a pipe ’ith my knife.’ “‘No,’ says he; ‘a sheath-knife?’ “‘Left un below,’ says I. ‘What you want un for?’ “‘Jus’ a little job,’ says he. “‘What _kind_ of a job?’ says I. “‘Oh,’ says he, ‘jus’ a little job I got t’ do!’ “Seemed nobody had a knife, so Jim Tool fetched his own from below. “‘Find un?’ says I. “‘Not my bes’ one,’ says he. ‘Jus’ my second bes’.’ “Skipper Alex ’lowed ’twould snow like goose feathers afore half an hour was out, but, somehow, sir, nobody cared, though the wind was breakin’ off shore in saucy puff’s an’ the ice pack was goin’ abroad. “Jim Tool feeled the edge of his knife. ‘Isn’t my bes’ one,’ says he. ‘I got a new one somewheres.’ “I ’lowed he was a bit out o’ temper with the knife; an’ it _did_ look sort o’ foul sir, along o’ overuse an’ neglect. “‘Greasy,’ says he, wipin’ the blade on his boot; ‘wonderful greasy! Isn’t much use no more. Wisht I had my bes’ one. This here,’ says he, ‘is got three big nicks. But, anyhow, Arch,’ says he, ‘I won’t hurt you no more’n I can help!’