"His face was close to mine. In his eyes, which were now steady, two live, red coals were glowing. I fell back from him, frightened; for I now knew what work the wicked fairies had assigned to him for that night. Poor fellow! Frightened though I was, I pitied him. I saw his distress, and pitied him! He was fighting manfully against the impulse; but it mastered him, at last, and I realized that my life was in grave danger. I was penned in, you know, and—they call me 'little Cook'—I was no match for him.
"'No,' said I. 'I've no gun.'
"'Has you got a knife?' said he.
"'Sorry,' said I; 'but I'm sold out of knives.'
"'Has you got a razor?' said he.
"It was high time to mislead him. I saw an opportunity to escape.
"'Is it razors you want?' I cried. 'Sure, I've some grand ones—big ones, boy, sharp ones, bright ones. I keep them in the forecastle where 'tis dry. So I'll just run up to fetch the lot to show you.'
"His eyes glistened when I spoke of the brightness and sharpness of those razors. With a show of confidence, I jumped on the counter and swung my legs over. But he pushed me back—so angrily, indeed, that I feared to precipitate the encounter if I persisted.
"'Don't trouble, sir,' said he. 'I'll find something that'll answer. Ha!' said he, taking an axe from the rack and 'hefting' it. 'This will do.'
"'But I'm wanting to wash my hands, anyway,' said I.