So did I.
And for two hours we sat there, face to face, whet, whet, whet, till the news of it spread abroad and half the ship's company was crowding the galley doors to see the sight.
Encouragement and advice were freely tendered, and Jock Horner, the quiet, self-spoken hunter who looked as though he would not harm a mouse, advised me to leave the ribs alone and to thrust upward for the abdomen, at the same time giving what he called the "Spanish twist" to the blade.
Leach, his bandaged arm prominently to the fore, begged me to leave a few remnants of the cook for him; and Wolf Larsen paused once or twice at the break of the poop to glance curiously at what must have been to him a stirring and crawling of the yeasty thing he knew as life.
And I make free to say that for the time being life assumed the same sordid values to me.

There was nothing pretty about it, nothing divine--only two cowardly moving things that sat whetting steel upon stone, and a group of other moving things, cowardly and otherwise, that looked on.

Half of them, I am sure, were anxious to see us shedding each other's blood.

It would have been entertainment.

And I do not think there was one who would have interfered had we closed in a death-struggle.
On the other hand, the whole thing was laughable and childish.