"We are now ready," said he, "for the ceremony. Ketch, thy cutlass."
Ketch drew his cutlass from his belt and handed it to the captain. It glittered wickedly in the sunlight. The captain ran his thumb along its edge, and nodded his head with satisfaction.
"It will do," said he. "One stroke for each will be
quite sufficient. We will now proceed with the ceremony."
He restored the cutlass to the Practitioner, who raised it high and gave a swinging slash downward with it, as if to test his eye and arm. The Practitioner then rolled his right shirt-sleeve up to his shoulder; he was the largest man in the party, and his arm was the arm of a blacksmith.
"Stop!" cried Mr. Punch. "One moment! Captain Lingo! You are a Henglishman, aren't you?"
"I am an Englishman," said the Captain, swelling out his chest. "Long live King James!"
"Hi am a Henglishman also," said Mr. Punch, swelling out his chest. "You carn't murder a fellow-countryman in cold blood, now can you? Hi s'y, you couldn't do that, you know. We're both subjects of her gracious Majesty, we are. Long live Queen Victoria!"
"Who?" said Captain Lingo.
"Queen Victoria!" cried Mr. Punch. "She'd never, never forgive you hif——"