“Well done!” whispered Punch. “He is something like a king after all. He means fighting, he does!”
“Hush,” whispered back Pen, “or you will be heard.”
“Not us,” replied Punch, who began busying himself most unnecessarily with his musket, placing the butt between his feet, pulling out the ramrod and running it down the barrel to tap the end of the cartridge as if to make sure that it was well driven home.
Satisfied with this, he drew the iron rod again, thrust it into the loops, threw the piece muzzle forward, opened the pan to see that it was full of powder, shut it down again, and made a careful examination of the flint. For these were the days long prior to the birth of the copper percussion-cap, and plenty of preliminaries had to be gone through before the musket could be fired.
Satisfied now that everything possible had been done, he whispered a suggestion to his companion that he too should make an examination.
“I did,” replied Pen, “a few minutes ago.”
“But hadn’t you better look again?” whispered Punch.
“No, no,” cried his companion impatiently. “Look at them; they are all advancing to the entrance, and we oughtn’t to be left behind.”
“We ain’t a-going to be,” said the boy through his set teeth. “Come on.”
“No,” replied Pen.