“The boxes, 250.”
“Well, what about ’em?”
“Cartridges,” I said. “Two hundred and fifty in each.”
“So they are,” cried Bigley with his eyes dilating; and, however much we may have been disappointed over the silver mine, the counting-house now seemed to be a perfect treasure cave, such an armoury had it become.
“I say, they won’t go off, will they?” cried Bigley.
“Pshaw! Not they. I say, wouldn’t old Bob like to be here now?”
“Ah, wouldn’t he?” said Bigley. “Why, it’s like being in a real robbers’ cave.”
“No,” I said; “not robbers’,” and I recalled the thoughts I had indulged in earlier in the day.
“No; of course not,” said Bigley thoughtfully; “it isn’t like a robbers’ cave. I say, don’t it look as if there were going to be a fight?”
I nodded, and wondered whether there would be.