“‘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!’