“Tchah! I don’t want any helmets. You cut.”
“And suppose I hurt you?”
“S’pose you can’t.”
“Well, I don’t want to,” said Roy; “so look out.”
“Right, sir; chop away.”
Roy raised his sword slowly, and the old soldier dropped the point of his and began to laugh.
“That won’t do, my lad; lift your blade as if you were going to bring it down again, not as if you meant to hang it up for an ornament on a peg.”
“Oh, very well,” said Roy. “Now, then, I’m going to cut at you sharp.”
“Oh, are you, sir?” said Ben. “Now, if ever you’re a soldier, and meet a man who means to kill you, shall you tell him you’re going to cut at him sharply? because, if you do, you’ll have his blade through you before you’ve half said it.”
“You are precious fond of your banter,” cried Roy, who was a little put out now. “Serve you right if I do hurt you. But this blade won’t cut, will it?”