'And yet I'll live longer'n you, ' Jack said, then jumped down from the pilot-house and began to approach Flatt – who stood and watched dumbly at first, perhaps not aware that all of his fellows had fled to other parts of the ship. When Jack drew closer, and turned sideways, and bent his knees, and showed Flatt the edge of his blade, Flatt went en garde for just a moment, then seemed to come to his senses, backpedaled several yards, then simply turned and ran. Jack could hear men laughing – satisfying in a way, but, on second thought, vexing. This was serious work, not play-acting. The only way to make these half-wits understand that weighty matters were at stake was probably to kill someone. So Jack cornered Flatt up at the bow, and pursued him, actually, out onto the very bowsprit, weaving and dodging around the points of the inner jib, the outer jib, and the flying jib, all of which were quivering and snapping in the wind as no one was paying attention to keeping them trimmed. Finally the wretch Flatt was perched on the tip of the bowsprit, gripping the last available line * to keep from being tossed away by the routine pitching of the ship. With the other hand he raised a cutlass in a feeble threat. 'Be killed now by a Christian or in ten minutes by a heathen – it's all one to me – but if you choose to be a slave, your life is worthless, and I'll flick you into the ocean like a turd,' Jack said.