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 cutlass, 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 cutlass 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.
"Well, we guessed that they were, father," I replied colouring.

"It seemed as if there must be cartridges for the pistols." "Right, my boy," he replied.
"And of course cartridges are not wanted for cutlasses," I continued.
"No," he said laughing; "you load your cutlasses with muscles." "But they want belts," I ventured to observe.
"To be sure," said my father.

"There they are in that box.

You shall unpack them when we've undone these.

Let me look at that pistol, Uggleston." Bigley handed him the pistol, and my father drew the ramrod, thrust it down the barrel, and gave it two or three taps to make sure that it was not loaded.