Part 45 (1/2)

”Why, of course!” I exclaimed. ”Here: you go on. I can't manage this screw. How stupid of me not to think of it!”

”There he goes!” said Bigley, giving the screw a good wrench. ”How many more are there? I see: these two.”

He attacked them one after the other, talking the while.

”I wonder you don't know what's in the box,” he said. ”I thought your father told you everything--so different to mine, who never says anything to me.”

”He does say a great deal to me, but he didn't tell me about the box.”

”There, then!” cried Bigley, taking out the last screw and seating himself suddenly upon the chest. ”We've only got to lift the lid and there we are. Who has first peep?”

”Oh, I don't care,” I said laughing. ”You can.”

”Here goes, then!” cried Bigley. ”Take care of the screws.”

I swept them into a heap and placed them on the table as Bigley threw open the lid, which worked upon two great hinges, and then removing some coa.r.s.e paper he drew back.

”You'd better unpack,” he said. ”Don't make a litter with the shavings.”

For as the paper was removed the box seemed to be full of very fine brown shavings mixed with fine saw-dust.

I swept the shavings away and felt my hands touch a row of long parcels, carefully wrapped in a peculiar-looking paper; and as I took them out, and shook them free of the saw-dust, handing them one by one to Bigley to place upon the table, my heart began to beat, and the blood flushed into my cheeks.

”Why, they're not mining tools!” cried Bigley excitedly. ”Whatever are you going to do? They're swords.”

”Yes,” I said huskily; ”they're swords--cutla.s.ses.”

”Why, you knew all the time!” cried Bigley.

”No; I did not,” I said. ”I had no idea.”

”But how comical!” he cried. ”What are you going to do with them?”

I did not answer, for all my thoughts of half an hour before seemed to have rushed back, and I felt that I had been wondering why my father had not done that which he really had; and, though Bigley evidently could not realise the object of the weapons being there, it certainly seemed to me that my father felt that there was danger in the air, and that he meant to be prepared.

”What are you thinking about?” cried my companion. ”Why don't you speak?”

”I was thinking about the cutla.s.ses,” I said.

”Well, it is a surprise!” cried Bigley. ”Oh, I know. Your father's an old sea captain, and they say the French are coming. He's going to arm some men as volunteers.”

All this time I was handing out the wrapped-up weapons, as we supposed them to be--as we felt they must be--and Bigley was arranging them upon the table side by side.

”That's the end of those,” I said, and Bigley counted them. Twelve.

”Twelve swords,” he said. ”I say, Sep, let's ask him to make us volunteers too.”

But I was unpacking the next things, and felt in no wise surprised by their weight and shape, to which the brown paper lent itself pretty clearly.

”Pistols!” cried Bigley, as I handed the first. ”Oh, I say, Sep, do you think there'll be any uniforms too?”