Then he remembered his swagger togs and looked himself all over, and stuck his hands in his pocket.

He twigged me looking at him as he did so.
"I've got a knife," he said, as cool as if he'd known me a couple of terms.
"Who said you hadn't ?" I responded.
"It's in my pocket," he said.
"Oh," said I.

I didn't want to encourage him.
He pulled it out, staring at me all the time.

Then he slipped down off the seat and brought it up to me.
"Open it," he said.
"Open it yourself," said I.
"I can't," said he.

"Open it! Open it!" "All right, keep your temper," said I, and I opened it.