“Twelve swords,” he said. “I say, Sep, let’s ask him to make us volunteers too.”
But I was unpacking the next things, and felt in no wise surprised by their weight and shape, to which the brown paper lent itself pretty clearly.
“Pistols!” cried Bigley, as I handed the first. “Oh, I say, Sep, do you think there’ll be any uniforms too?”
“No,” I said, “not in a box like this. Here, catch hold!”
I handed the first pistol to him, and he laid it beneath the swords.
“I know how many there ought to be!” he cried—“twenty-four. A brace of pistols and a cutlass for every man. Here, pitch them and I’ll catch.”
There was nothing to prevent my handing them to him; but, boy-like, it seemed pleasant thus to turn work into play, and I began to pitch one by one the little heavy packages as I drew them out of the chest.
Bigley nearly let one fall, but he saved it, and laughingly placed it in the row he was making, till, counting the while, he exclaimed—
“Twenty-three! Is that next one the last?”
“Yes,” I said, as I pitched it to him and it was placed in the range upon the table. “You were right.”