Devon Boys Part 46

"No," I said with a sigh; "but I should like to have a look."

We two lads went on hovering about the table, peering at first one packet and then at another, feeling them up and down, and quite convincing ourselves that certain ones were a little more ornamental than others. There was no doubt about it, we felt. They were swords, pistols, and carbines.

"Here, I know," I exclaimed.

"Know what, Sep?"

"The boxes, 250."

"Well, what about 'em?"

"Cartridges," I said. "Two hundred and fifty in each."

"So they are," cried Bigley with his eyes dilating; and, however much we may have been disappointed over the silver mine, the counting-house now seemed to be a perfect treasure cave, such an armoury had it become.

"I say, they won't go off, will they?" cried Bigley.

"Pshaw! Not they. I say, wouldn't old Bob like to be here now?"

"Ah, wouldn't he?" said Bigley. "Why, it's like being in a real robbers' cave."

"No," I said; "not robbers'," and I recalled the thoughts I had indulged in earlier in the day.

"No; of course not," said Bigley thoughtfully; "it isn't like a robbers'

cave. I say, don't it look as if there were going to be a fight?"

I nodded, and wondered whether there would be.

"Should you like to be in it if there was?" I said in a curious doubting manner.

Bigley rubbed one ear, and picked up a sword.

"I don't know," he said. "Sometimes I think I should; but sometimes I feel as if it would be very horrid to give a fellow a chop with a thing like this, just as if he was so much meat. I would, though, if he was going to hurt my father," he cried with his eyes flashing. "I'd cut his arm right off. Wouldn't you?"

"Dunno," I said, and I began wondering whether there would ever be any occasion to use these weapons, and I could not help a shrinking sensation of dread coming over me, for I seemed to see the horror as well as the glory of shooting down human beings, and more than ever it occurred to me that if trouble did come, my old school-fellow might be on one side and I on the other.

"I say," said Bigley suddenly; "we've only undone one box, oughtn't we to undo the other?"

"What, that?" I said, looking at a shorter smaller box on end in the corner behind the door.

"Yes."

"Father didn't say I was to."

"But that looks as if it came from the same place."

"Why, Big," I cried eagerly, "that must have the uniforms in it."

"Hurray! Yes," he cried. "Wonder whether they're scarlet?"

"No," I said. "They're sure to be blue, like the sailors'."

"Oh! I don't know about that," he cried. "Marines wear scarlet. I daresay they're red."

"Should you open the box if you were me?"

"Well, no," said Bigley; "perhaps not. He didn't tell us to. But oh, how I should like to take the paper off one of these pistols!"

"So should I," was my reply, with a longing look at the array of quaint-looking parcels; "but we mustn't do that, though I do feel as if I could do it up again just as neatly."

"No; don't try," cried Bigley. "Let 'em be. We can think what's inside. I shouldn't wonder if some of them are mounted with bra.s.s, and have lions' heads on the b.u.t.ts."

"Yes, and the swords too--bra.s.s lions' heads, holding the guards in their mouths."

"Why, we haven't seen any belts."

"No; they would be with the uniforms. I say, I wonder whether the cutla.s.ses are very sharp?"

"And whether they are bright blue half-way up the blade; you said your father's sword was."

"Yes," I replied; "and inlaid with gold. It was given to him when he left his ship."

"Here, come out!" cried Bigley, laying hold of my hand.

"Come out? What for?" I said.

"Because it's the best way. I always run off when I see anything very tempting that I want to touch, and ought not to."

"Get out!" I cried.

"I do, Sep, honour bright, and I feel now as if I should be obliged to undo some of those papers, and try the pistols, and pull the swords out of the sheaths. Let's go out."

I laughed, for I felt very much in the same way, only it seemed to be so cowardly to go, and Bigley came to the same way of thinking, the result being that we kept on picking up the different packages and feasting our imaginations by means of touch, till suddenly the door opened, and my father came in.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

READY FOR THE FRENCH.

"Well, boys," said my father, "unpacked? That's right, but you might as well have undone them." We each dashed at a package, whipped out our knives, cut the string, and rapidly unrolled the contents, till Bigley held a pistol, and I a cutla.s.s, of the regular navy pattern both.

My father took the sword from my hand, drew its short broad blade, and made it whiz through the air as he gave a cut, guarding directly, and then giving point.

"Hah!" he said, as we watched him breathlessly, "I used to have two hundred and fifty stout Jack-tars under me, boys, every one of whom handled a cutla.s.s like that."

"Two hundred and fifty," I said; "just as many as there are cartridges in those boxes."

"How did you know that they were cartridges?" he said smiling.