“Yes, I have had a good turn at them; but it seems a pity, don’t it?”
“What seems a pity?”
“To wrap all that tackle up and put it away so as it shan’t be seen, till I think it wants cleaning again.”
“Yes, of course. But you are not going to put mine away.”
“Oh, yes, I am,” said the old man. “I didn’t sleep all last night for thinking about it. I don’t mean for us to get into any trouble with the master, so remember that.”
“Look here, Serge!” cried the boy, angrily, “you can put your armour and father’s away, of course, but this is mine, and I didn’t save up the money father gave me and let you buy what was wanted and pay those old workmen, the smith and armourer, to cut down and alter and make all these things to fit me, to have them all wrapped up and put away where I can’t see them.”
“But you must, boy. You are not going to fight.”
“Never mind that. I am not going to have them put away.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to put them on sometimes.”