“Why didn’t that Eastport man bid, then? He bought his boots. Ain’t Maine progressive?”
“Maine? Pshaw! They don’t know enough, or they hain’t got money enough, to paint their haouses in Maine. I’ve seen ’em. The Eastport man he told me that the knife had been used—so the French captain told him—used up on the French coast last year.”
“Cut a man? Heave ’s the muckle.” Harvey hauled in his fish, rebaited, and threw over.
“Killed him! Course, when I heard that I was keener’n ever to get it.”
“Christmas! I didn’t know it,” said Harvey, turning round. “I’ll give you a dollar for it when I—get my wages. Say, I’ll give you two dollars.”
“Honest? D’you like it as much as all that?” said Dan, flushing. “Well, to tell the truth, I kinder got it for you—to give; but I didn’t let on till I saw how you’d take it. It’s yours and welcome, Harve, because we’re dory-mates, and so on and so forth, an’ so followin’. Catch a-holt!”
He held it out, belt and all.
“But look at here. Dan, I don’t see—”
“Take it. ’Tain’t no use to me. I wish you to hev it.” The temptation was irresistible. “Dan, you’re a white man,” said Harvey. “I’ll keep it as long as I live.”
“That’s good hearin’,” said Dan, with a pleasant laugh; and then, anxious to change the subject: “ ’Look’s if your line was fast to somethin’.”
“Fouled, I guess,” said Harve, tugging. Before he pulled up he fastened the belt round him, and with deep delight heard the tip of the sheath click on the thwart. “Concern the thing!” he cried. “She acts as though she were on strawberry-bottom. It’s all sand here, ain’t it?”