Leach laughed and hurled more of his Telegraph Hill Billingsgate, and before either he or I knew what had happened, his right arm had been ripped open from elbow to wrist by a quick slash of the knife.

The cook backed away, a fiendish expression on his face, the knife held before him in a position of defence.

But Leach took it quite calmly, though blood was spouting upon the deck as generously as water from a fountain.
"I'm goin' to get you, Cooky," he said, "and I'll get you hard.

And I won't be in no hurry about it.

You'll be without that knife when I come for you." So saying, he turned and walked quietly forward.