“Oh, the size doesn’t matter, Bill,” said Nic impatiently.
“Begging your pardon, sir, it do,” said the old sailor severely. “You don’t want to kill nobody in a fight such as we’re going to have, do ye?”
“No, no; of course not.”
“There you are, then. Man’s sure to hit as hard as he can when his monkey’s up; and that stick’s just as heavy as you can have ’em without breaking bones. That’s the sort o’ stick as’ll knock a man silly and give him the headache for a week, and sarve him right. If it was half-a-hounce heavier it’d kill him.”
“How do you know?” said Nic sharply.
“How do I know, sir?” said the man wonderingly. “Why, I weighed it.”
Nic would have asked for further explanations; but just then there were steps heard in the yard, and the gardener and a couple of labourers came up in the dusk.
“Oh, there you are,” growled Solly. “Here’s your weepuns;” and he raised three of the cudgels. “You may hit as hard as you like with them. Seen any of the others?”
“Yes,” said the gardener; “there’s two from the village coming along the road, and three of us taking the short cut over the home field. That’s all I see.”
“Humph!” said Solly. “There ought to be five more by this time.”