But it was all sham.
Poor Tim could be as brave as any one as far as words went, but when it came to blows and hard knocks he wished himself a thousand miles away.
Some of the smugglers provided Tim with plenty of arms.
“As I must go,” thought Tim, “and as there is no getting away from these villanous, black-looking band of smugglers, I might as well arm myself to the teeth; the more weapons I have the greater chance I have for my life.”
With this thought uppermost in his mind, Master Tim put on an immense pair of water-boots that reached above the knee; and although he could scarcely walk in them, on account of their weight and clumsiness, he never said a word.
“For,” thought Tim, “it won’t do to let these devils think I am afraid, after all the hard lies I have told ’em to-day; besides, if they thought I wanted to get away, they’d scrag me on the instant.”
Next he put on an immense waist-belt, and stuck into it half-a-dozen pistols, all double-shotted.
Besides these, he thrust into his belt a heavy cutlass, a dagger, and a long knife.
Not satisfied with all these warlike preparations, he seized a heavy blunderbuss, and filled up to the muzzle with powder and shot.
This he slung on his back, and walked up and down the cave, thinking—