“Yes,” I said huskily; “they’re swords—cutlasses.”
“Why, you knew all the time!” cried Bigley.
“No; I did not,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“But how comical!” he cried. “What are you going to do with them?”
I did not answer, for all my thoughts of half an hour before seemed to have rushed back, and I felt that I had been wondering why my father had not done that which he really had; and, though Bigley evidently could not realise the object of the weapons being there, it certainly seemed to me that my father felt that there was danger in the air, and that he meant to be prepared.
“What are you thinking about?” cried my companion. “Why don’t you speak?”
“I was thinking about the cutlasses,” I said.
“Well, it is a surprise!” cried Bigley. “Oh, I know. Your father’s an old sea captain, and they say the French are coming. He’s going to arm some men as volunteers.”
All this time I was handing out the wrapped-up weapons, as we supposed them to be—as we felt they must be—and Bigley was arranging them upon the table side by side.
“That’s the end of those,” I said, and Bigley counted them. Twelve.