“‘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.’
“An’ this was Jimmie Tool! Why, sir, I knowed Jimmie Tool when he was a lad o’ twelve. A hearty lad, sir, towheaded an’ stout an’ strong an’ lively, with freckles on his nose, an’ a warm, kind, white-toothed little grin for such as put a hand on his shoulder. Wasn’t nobody ever, man, woman, or child, that touched Jimmie Tool in kindness ’ithout bein’ loved. He jus’ couldn’t help it. You jus’ be good t’ Jimmie Tool, you jus’ put a hand on his head an’ smile, an’ Jimmie ’lowed they was no man like you. ‘You got a awful kind heart, lad,’ says I, when he was twelve; ‘an’ when you grows up,’ says I, ‘I ’low the folk o’ this coast will be glad you was born.’ An’ here was Jimmie Tool, swarmin’ up the Black Bight cliffs, bent on the splittin’ o’ Archibald Shott, which same Archibald I had took t’ Sunday-school, by the wee, soft hand of un, many a time, when he was a flabby-fleshed, chatterin’ rollypolly o’ four! Bein’ jus’ a ol’ fool, sir—bein’ jus’ a soft ol’ fool hangin’ over the Black Bight cliffs—I wisht, somehow, that little Jimmie Tool had never needed t’ grow up.
“‘Jimmie,” says I, ‘what you really goin’ t’ do?’
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘jus’ a minute.’
“‘Very well,’ says I; ‘but you better leave poor Arch alone.’
“‘How’s his grip?’ says he.
“‘None too good,’ says I; ‘a touch would dislodge un.’
“‘If I cotched un by the ankle, then,’ says he, ‘I ’low I could jerk un loose.’