“What would your mother say if you were to carry home word that Mr Hope could not come—that his family dare not part with him?”
“Oh, then she must let me have my father’s pistols, and watch for the fellows. If they came about our windows as they did about the Russell Taylors’, how I would let fly among them! They came rapping at the shutters, at two this morning; and when Mr Taylor looked out from his bedroom above, they said they would not trouble themselves to get in, if he would throw out his money!”
“And did he?”
“Yes. They raised a hat upon a pole, and he put in four or five pounds—all he had in the house, he told them. So they went away; but none of the family thought of going to bed again.”
“I dare say not. And what sort of thieves are these supposed to be? They set about their business very oddly.”
“Not like London thieves,” said Sydney, consequentially, as if he knew all about London thieves. “They are the distressed country people, no doubt—such as would no more think of standing a second shot from my pistol, than of keeping the straits of Thermopylae. Look here,” he continued, showing the end of a pistol, which peeped from a pocket inside his coat; “here’s a thing that will put such gentry into a fine taking.”
“Pray, is that pistol loaded?” inquired Hester, pressing her infant to her.
“To be sure. What is the use of a pistol if it is not loaded? It might as well be in the shop as in my pocket, then. Look at her, cousin Margaret! If she is not in as great a fright as the cowardly thieves! Why, cousin Hester, don’t you see, if this pistol went off, it would not shoot you or the baby. It would go straight through me.”
“That is a great comfort. But I had rather you would go away, you and your pistol. Pray, does your mother know that you carry one?”
“No. Mind you don’t tell her. I trust you not to tell her. Remember, I would not have told you if I had not felt sure of you.”