“I wonder you don’t know what’s in the box,” he said. “I thought your father told you everything—so different to mine, who never says anything to me.”
“He does say a great deal to me, but he didn’t tell me about the box.”
“There, then!” cried Bigley, taking out the last screw and seating himself suddenly upon the chest. “We’ve only got to lift the lid and there we are. Who has first peep?”
“Oh, I don’t care,” I said laughing. “You can.”
“Here goes, then!” cried Bigley. “Take care of the screws.”
I swept them into a heap and placed them on the table as Bigley threw open the lid, which worked upon two great hinges, and then removing some coarse paper he drew back.
“You’d better unpack,” he said. “Don’t make a litter with the shavings.”
For as the paper was removed the box seemed to be full of very fine brown shavings mixed with fine saw-dust.
I swept the shavings away and felt my hands touch a row of long parcels, carefully wrapped in a peculiar-looking paper; and as I took them out, and shook them free of the saw-dust, handing them one by one to Bigley to place upon the table, my heart began to beat, and the blood flushed into my cheeks.
“Why, they’re not mining tools!” cried Bigley excitedly. “Whatever are you going to do? They’re swords.”