"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--cutlasses." "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 cutlasses," I said.
"Well, it is a surprise!" cried Bigley.