“The mare has a cold and the syce[[4]] is a qualified fool, is he? H’m! I think it’s high time you had a look in at little old England, my son, what? And who made you this elegant rapier? Ochterlonie Sahib or—who?” (Lieutenant Lord Ochterlonie was the Adjutant of the Queen’s Greys, a friend of Colonel de Warrenne, an ex-admirer of his late wife, and a great pal of his son.)
[4] Groom.
“’Tithn’t a waper. It’th my thword. I made it mythelf.”
“Who helped?”
“Nobody. At leatht, Khodadad Khan, Orderly, knocked the holes in the tin like I showed him—or elthe got the Farrier Thargeant to do it, and thaid he had.”
“Yes—but who told you how to make it like this? Where did you see a hand-part like this? It isn’t like Daddy’s sword, nor Khodadad Khan’s tulwar. Where did you copy it?”
“I didn’t copy it…. I shot ten rats wiv a bow-and-arrow last night. At leatht—I don’t think I shot ten. Nor one. I don’t think I didn’t, pwaps.”
“But hang it all, the thing’s an Italian rapier, by Gad. Some one must have shown you how to make the thing, or you’ve got a picture. It’s a pukka[[5]] mediaeval rapier.”
[5] Real, solid, permanent, proper, ripe, genuine.
“No it’th not. It’th my thword. I made it…. Have a jolly fight”—and the boy struck an extraordinarily correct fencing attitude—left hand raised in balance, sword poised, legs and feet well placed, the whole pose easy, natural, graceful.