"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.