The Midland Journal

Italians Are Not Generally Given to the Use of Steel in Their Brawls.

"I wonder why it is," said a cotton sampler who prides himself on his close observation, relates the New Orleans Times-Democrat, "that the Italians have acquired such a sinister reputation as knife fighters? The facts don't bear it out. I have been knocking around the wharves for a good many years and have seen plenty of fighting among sailors, roustabouts and desperate men of all kinds, colors and nationality, and never but once did I see an Italian use a knife. Even then the weapon was thrust into his hands by a companion after he had started blithely into the melee with a stick. As far as my observation goes, the people most addicted to cold steel in the settlement of their little differences are Norwegian sailors. The most formidable knife wielder I ever met in my life belonged to that class. He was a big, yellow-haired, rather melancholy looking chap, who came here on a Liverpool tramp and invested some small savings in a lodging-house not far from the old fruit wharves. I got acquainted with him soon after he set up in business and took quite a fancy to the fellow. Like many seafaring men of his nationality, he was passionately fond of music, and, strange to say, he had heard nearly all the great singers and was familiar with most of the famous operas, although he was otherwise uneducated and could hardly read and write. I sized him up as a gentle, simple-minded giant, and labored under that delusion until it was rudely dispelled by a tragic episode of which I chanced to be an eye-witness.

Three drunken seamen dropped into his place one evening with the avowed intention of raising a row, and one of them set the ball rolling by kicking over the stove. Instantly my Norwegian friend leaped over a little counter, at the same time drawing an eight-inch dirk from somewhere back of his neck, and went to work on the trio. The fracas occupied possibly half a minute, at the end of which time the sailors had disappeared and everything in the room was more or less spattered with gore. I never learned how badly they were hurt, but there was certainly some pretty promiscuous carving while the row lasted. Later on the lodging house keeper showed me how he carried his knife. He kept it in a sheath sewed to the inner side of his vest, just under the collar. It seemed an outlandish place for a weapon, but he could draw it like lightning, and, as he remarked, it was apt to be overlooked in a search. He also gave me an exhibition of dirk throwing--at which some sailors become astonishingly proficient. He would hold the blade open on his right palm, the point to the left, and launch it through the air with a sudden, indescribable swoop. At a dozen feet away he could strike a circle six inches in diameter with unfailing accuracy, but with all its dexterity there was something so barbarously uncouth about the performance that it made my blood run cold to watch him. He got into several other knife fights afterward, and his fondness for that diversion eventually led to his departure between suns. If he was still here I think I would select some other illustration for my remarks."