CHAPTER XII.
THE FIRST EFFORT.
"I've broken my jack-knife," said the yellow-headed, yellow-faced tar who rejoiced in the nickname of Brimstone. The speech was accompanied by an oath that chilled the very soul of Blair Robertson; but it was the morning after the watch which had so changed his views towards his wild associates, and he at once seized the opportunity to begin his new line of conduct.
Blair had a large many-bladed Sheffield knife, which had been a present to his father from an English captain. For several years it was hoarded as a special treasure, and then on a Christmas-day found its way into the pocket of the only son. Blair knew the worth and temper of every blade, and its fit and appointed use. Not a boy in Fairport had such a knife, as had been acknowledged on all hands. He had besides often thought of it as no bad weapon in case of an attack from any of the fighting crew of the Molly. "To stick a man," was in their estimation no uncommon occurrence, judging from the tales of their adventures, which they delighted to tell.
"Take my knife, wont you? It is a first-rate one," said Blair, handing over his treasure as freely as if the sacrifice had cost him no effort.
Brimstone opened his round cat-like eyes in surprise; and then dropping the knife into the depths of his pocket, said, "Green, green! You expected to make a trade with me, I suppose. You can't come it. I never swap."
"I meant to make you a present of it. You seemed so put out about your knife's breaking," said Blair pleasantly. "A fellow does hate to break his knife. An English captain gave that to my father five years ago. It has six blades."
Brimstone took the knife out of his pocket and examined it slowly, opening blade after blade with the air of a connoisseur.
"I say, youngster, it's a first-rate article. You meant a swap, now; own up. What did you mean to ask me for it, if I'd been in the humor?"