and you settle your own differences--one of you lives.
John, give 'em knives!"

As I heard these words, amazed and doubting, the men, without any other
incitement, and uttering no remark, stripped off their coats and stood
naked to the waists. The crew about left off their games and drew near,
forming a ring round the men, who had taken up great clasp-knives, and
were evidently to fight for their very lives. I knew then the meaning
of the words "One of you lives;" and an excitement, strange and full of
morbid interest, took possession of me.

That the men were to fight, and fight to the death, was sufficiently
terrible; but a savour of horror was added to the dish by the flagrant
unfairness of the conditions under which they fought. The American,
Skinner, was thickly built, and of a sturdy physique. He had the better
of his man in height, in reach, in physical strength; for Tovotsky, as
I heard the Russian called, was a man of small stature, rather a shred
of a man, full hairy about his breast, yet giving small signs of
hardihood, or of power. It seemed to me that he might well have
protested against the manner of the contest, and urged that a fight
with knives would go to the stronger, skill being no part of it; but he
said nothing, wearing an air of sullen determination, while his
antagonist bellowed at him as though to overawe him by cheap bravado.

"Stand up right here, so ez I ken stick you, boss," he cried, when they
faced each other; adding as the Russian dodged him: "What, my hearty,
have ye got the taste of it already?--now steady, ye yellow-haired
buzzard; steady, ye skunk, while I make hog's meat of you."

They stood crouched like beasts, or revolved about each other, the
gleaming blades poised in the air, their left hands seeking
holding-place. Skinner struck first, his knife shining bright against
the light as he slashed at Tovotsky's throat, but the Russian doubled
down between his legs, and the pair fell heavily a yard away from each
other.

"Slit him as he lies, Dave!" "End him, Tov!" "Do you reckon you're
abed?" These and other equally elegant exclamations fell from the lips
of the crew, as the men lay dazed, fearful of mischief if they rose.
But the Russian was first up, and springing at the other, who rolled
aside as he came, he sent his knife home in his opponent's back, and a
great shout of "First blood!" turned me sick with the terror of it. Nor
could I look at them for some minutes, fearing