“Right, my boy,” he replied.
“And of course cartridges are not wanted for cutlasses,” I continued.
“No,” he said laughing; “you load your cutlasses with muscles.”
“But they want belts,” I ventured to observe.
“To be sure,” said my father. “There they are in that box. You shall unpack them when we’ve undone these. Let me look at that pistol, Uggleston.”
Bigley handed him the pistol, and my father drew the ramrod, thrust it down the barrel, and gave it two or three taps to make sure that it was not loaded. Then replacing the ramrod he cocked it, held it at arm’s length, and drew the trigger.
There was a little scintillation as the flint struck the cover of the pan, and he cocked and drew the trigger again, we two watching him with intense interest, and longing to try the pistol ourselves, but not liking to ask permission.
“There, work away!” he said, “save the string, and lay the brown paper in heaps; it may come in useful.”
We set to work, while my father took a hammer and some large nails from a drawer, and, standing on a stool, drove the nails in a row along a board at one side of the office, and as we unpacked he took the weapons from us and hung them up, a cutlass between two pistols, arranging the nails so that the arms looked ornamental, while at the same time they were quite ready to hand in case they should be wanted.
It took us some little time, but at last the task was done, and the cartridge chests stowed away in a cupboard, but not till each one had been carefully wrenched open, the copper nails taken out, and the lids replaced loose on the top.