He then hurried away and ran upstairs to the saloon.
Jack followed to the foot of the ladder, and one wild-eyed young lady said:
"Look at the Englishman [he was sitting on a chair a few feet distance]. Ain't he pale? Oh! the coward!"
She wanted to witness a real lively fight, and was disappointed. The smell of blood seems grateful to the nostrils of both ladies and gentlemen in the States. A butcher from St. Louis explained it thus:
"It's in the liver. Nine out of ten of the beasts I kill have liver complaint. I am morally sartin I'd find the human livers just the same if I examined them in any considerable quantity."
The captain came to the head of the stairs and descended to the deck. He was tall and lanky and mild of speech. He said:
"Now, Jack, what are you going to do with that knife?"
"I am waiting to cut the liver out of that Englishman. Send him down, Captain, till I finish the job."
"Yes, I see. He has been peeling your neck pretty bad, ain't he? Powerful claws, I reckon. Jack, you'll be getting into trouble some day with your weepons." He took a small knife out of his pocket. "Look here, Jack. I've been going up and down the river more'n twenty years, and never carried a weepon bigg'n that, and never had a muss with nobody. A man who draws his bowie sometimes gets shot. Let's look at your knife."
He examined it closely, deciphered the brand, drew his thumb over the edge, and observed: