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:

"Why, blame me, if it ain't one of them British bowies--a
Free-trade Brummagen. I reckon you can't carve anyone with a thing
like this." He made a dig at the hand-rail with the point, and it
actually curled up like the ring in a hog's snout. "You see, Jack, a
knife like that is mean, unbecoming a gentleman, and a disgrace to a
respectable boat." He pitched the British article into the river and
went up into the saloon.

As Jack had not yet recovered his prestige, he went away, and
returned with a dinner knife in one hand and a shingling hammer in
the other. He waited for his adversary until the sun was low and the
deck passengers were preparing their evening meal. Two of the
Englishmen came along towards the stairs and ascended to the saloon.
Presently they began to descend with their mate in the middle. Jack
looked at them, and for some reason or other he did not want any more
prestige. He sauntered away along the guard deck, and remained in
retirement during the rest of the voyage. He was not, after all, a
very desperate desperado.

During the next night our boat was racing with a rival craft, and one
of her engines was damaged. She had then to hop on one leg, as it