“With real fights instead of sham, Stubbs?”
“That’s it, sir; and that’s why I want to see you carrying sword that isn’t all show.”
Chapter XIV.
Out of his Cage.
The first thing Dick did on retiring to his quarters that night was to take his sword out of its case and admire its appearance once more. The next, to draw it and hold it close to the lamp, about which the night-moths were buzzing and a mosquito was sounding its miniature cheerful horn.
The brightly-burnished blade flashed in the soft, mellow light, and Dick thought it was very beautiful; but now, for the first time, it struck him that it was shockingly blunt.
He was devoted to his profession, and proud of being a soldier, but he had never had a bloodthirsty thought. But now a fresh train of ideas had been started by the old sergeant’s words. That beautiful, specklessly-bright blade, with its damascening, was meant to cut; and it was perfectly plain that, though it might have divided a pear or a pumpkin with a very vigorous blow, it would not cut it; while, as to the result of a thrust with the point, its effect would have been almost nil.
The idea seemed rather horrible—that of cutting flesh, or running an enemy through; but Dick felt that it was too late to think about such things as that. He was a soldier, and he had his duty to do.
And besides, in all the sword-exercise and fencing, he had been most carefully taught to look upon his sword as a weapon of defence as well as of offence.
“If we come to fighting at close quarters at any time, I’ve got to take care of myself,” thought the lad, “so you’ll have to be sharpened up.”