“I’ll get sticks directly, sir. You hit me first with the sword.”
“Oh, very well; if you will have it, you shall,” cried Roy, and, without giving any warning now, he delivered a horizontal blow at the old soldier’s side; but it was turned off just as the dozen or so which followed were thrown aside, and then, with a quiet laugh, the old fellow said—
“Now, every time you hit at me, I could have run you through.”
“No, you couldn’t,” said Roy, sharply.
“Well, we’ll see, sir. Put that down, and use this; or, no, keep your sword; the hilt will protect your hand in case I come down upon it.”
He took up a stout ash stick and threw himself on guard again, waiting for Roy’s blow, which he turned off, but before the next could descend, the boy’s aim was disordered by a sharp dig in the chest from the end of the ash stick; and so it was as he went on: before he could strike he always received a prod in the chest, ribs, arms, or shoulders.
“Oh, I say, Ben,” he cried at last; “I didn’t know you could use a stick like that.”
“Suppose not, my lad; but I knew you couldn’t use a sword like that. Now, I tell you what: you’d better come to me for an hour every morning before breakfast, and I’ll begin to make such a man of you as your father would like to see when he comes back.”
“Well, I will come, Ben,” said the lad; “but my arm does not ache so much now, and I don’t feel quite beaten. Let’s have another try.”
“Oh, I’ll try all day with you, if you like, sir,” said the old soldier; “only, suppose now you stand on guard and let me attack.”