“Then, sir, knife in hand an’ murder hot in his heart, he bore down on Archibald Shott. ’Twas all over in a flash: Arch, lean an’ nimble as a imp, leaped the rail an’ put off over the ice toward the Black Bight cliffs, with Slow Jim in chase. Skipper Alex whistled ‘Whew!’ an’ looked perfeckly stupid along o’ s’prise; whereon, sir, havin’ come to his senses of a sudden, he let out a whoop like a siren whistle an’ vaulted overside. Then me, sir; then the whole bally crew! In jus’ a wink ’twas follow my leader over the pans t’ save Archibald Shott from slaughter: scramble an’ leap, sir, slip an’ splash—across the pans an’ over the pools an’ lanes o’ water. “I ’low the skipper might o’ overhauled Jim an he hadn’t missed his leap an’ gone overhead ’longside. As for me, sir, wind an’ legs denied me. “‘Hol’ on, Jim!’ sings I. ‘Wait for _me_!’ “But Jim wasn’t heedin’ what was behind; I ’low, sir, what with hate an’ the rage o’ years, he wasn’t thinkin’ o’ nothin’ ’cept t’ get a knife in the vitals o’ Archibald Shott so deep an’ soon as he was able. Seemed he’d do it, too, in quick time, for jus’ that minute Archibald slipped; his legs sailed up in the air, an’ he landed on his shoulders an’ rolled off into the water. But God bein’ on the watch jus’ then, sir, Jim leaped short hisself from the pan he was on, an’ afore he could crawl from the sea Arch was out an’ lopin’ like a hare over better goin’. Jim was too quick for me t’ nab; I was fetched up all standin’ by the lane he’d leaped—while he sailed on in chase o’ Arch. An’ meantime the crew was scattered north an’ south, every man Jack makin’ over the ice for the Black Bight cliffs by the course that looked best, so that Arch was drove in on the rocks. I ’lowed ’twould be over in a trice if somebody didn’t leap on the back o’ Slow Jim Tool; but in this I was mistook: for Archibald Shott, bein’ hunted an’ scared an’ nimble, didn’t wait at the foot o’ the cliff for Jim Tool’s greasy knife. He shinned on up—up an’ up an’ up—higher an’ higher—with his legs an’ arms sprawled out an’ workin’ like a spider. Nor neither did Jim stop short. No, sir! He slipped his knife in his belt—an’ up shinned _he_! “‘_Jim_, you fool!’ sings I, when I come below, ‘you come down out o’ that!’ “But Jim jus’ kep’ mountin’. “‘Jim!’ says I. ‘You want t’ fall an’ get hurted?’ “Up comes the skipper in a proper state o’ wrath an’ salt water. ‘Look you, Jim Tool!’ sings he; ‘you want t’ break your neck?’ “I ’lowed maybe Jim was too high up t’ hear. “‘Tumm,’ says the skipper, ‘that fool will split Archibald Shott once he gets un. You go ’round by Tatter Brook,’ says he, ‘an’ climb the hill from behind. This foolishness is got t’ be stopped. Goin’ easy,’ says he, ‘you’ll beat Shott t’ the top o’ the cliff. He’ll be over first; let un go. But when Tool comes,’ says he, ‘why, you got a pair o’ arms there that can clinch a argument.’ “‘Ay,’ says I; ‘but what’ll come o’ Archibald?’