Chapter Twenty Seven.
Ready for the French.
“Well, boys,” said my father, “unpacked? That’s right, but you might as well have undone them.” We each dashed at a package, whipped out our knives, cut the string, and rapidly unrolled the contents, till Bigley held a pistol, and I a cutlass, of the regular navy pattern both.
My father took the sword from my hand, drew its short broad blade, and made it whiz through the air as he gave a cut, guarding directly, and then giving point.
“Hah!” he said, as we watched him breathlessly, “I used
to have two hundred and fifty stout Jack-tars under me, boys, every one of whom handled a cutlass like that.”
“Two hundred and fifty,” I said; “just as many as there are cartridges in those boxes.”
“How did you know that they were cartridges?” he said smiling.
“Well, we guessed that they were, father,” I replied colouring. “It seemed as if there must be cartridges for the pistols.”