Every Man for Himself Part 16

"Arch's lips jus' lifted away from his teeth in a ghastly sort o' grin.

"'Eh?' says Jim. 'What you want t' do a dirty trick like that for?'

"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 n.o.body 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 ash.o.r.e 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' gra.s.s.

"'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 n.o.body 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, n.o.body cared, though the wind was breakin'

off sh.o.r.e 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!'

"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 perf.e.c.kly 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 G.o.d 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?'

"'Well,' says the skipper, 'it looks t' me as if he'd be content jus' t'

keep on goin'.'

"In this way, sir, I come t' the top o' the cliff. They _was_ signs o'

weather-a black sky, puffs o' wind jumpin' out, scattered flakes o'

snow-but they wasn't no sign o' Archibald Shott. They was quite a reach o' brink, sir, high enough from the sh.o.r.e ice t' make a stomach squirm; an' it took a deal o' peepin' an' stretchin' t' spy out Arch an' Jim.

Then I 'lowed that Arch never _would_ get over; for I seed, sir-lyin'

there on the edge o' the cliff, with more head an' shoulders stickin'

out in s.p.a.ce than I cares t' dream about o' these quiet nights-I seed that Archibald Shott was cotched an' could get no further. There he was, sir, stickin' like plaster t' the face o' the cliff, some thirty feet below, finger-nails an' feet dug into the rock, his face like a year-old corpse. I sung out a hearty word-though, G.o.d knows! my heart was empty o' cheer-an' I heard some words rattle in Shott's dry throat, but couldn't understand; an' then, sir, overcome by s.p.a.ce an' that face o'

fear, I rolled back on the frozen moss, sick an' limp. When I looked again I seed, so far below that they looked like fat swile on the ice, the skipper an' the crew o' the _Billy Boy_, starin' up, with the floe an' black sea beyond, lyin' like a steep hill under the gray sky.

Midway, swarmin' up with cautious hands an' feet, come Slow Jim Tool, his face as white an' cold as the ice below, thin-lipped, wolf-eyed, his heart as cruel now, sir, his slow mind as keen, his muscles as tense an'

eager, as a brute's on the hunt.

"'Jim!' says I. 'Oh, Jim!'

"Jim jus' come on up.

"'Jim!' says I. 'Is that _you_?'

"Seemed, sir, it jus' _couldn't_ be. Not _Jim_! Why, I _nursed_ Jim! I tossed Jimmie Tool t' the ceilin' when he was a mushy infant too young t' do any more'n jus' gurgle. Why, at that minute, sir, like a dream in the gray s.p.a.ce below, I could see Jimmie Tool's yellow head an' fat white legs an' calico dresses, jus' as they used t' be.

"'Jim,' says I, 'it can't be you. Not you, Jim,' says I; 'not _you_!'

"'Tumm,' says he, 'is he stuck? Can't he get no farther?'

"Jim!

"'If he can't,' says he, 'I got un! I'll knife un, Tumm,' says he, 'jus'

in a minute.'

"'Don't try it,' says I.

"'Don't you fret, Tumm,' says he. 'Isn't no fear o' _me_ fallin'. _I'm_ all right.'