“Not at all!” said Mr Poulter, contemptuously. “Nothing o’ the sort! Heads up!” he added, in a tone of stern command, which delighted Tom, and made him feel as if he were a regiment in his own person. “No, no!” Mr Poulter would continue, on coming to a pause in his discipline; “they’d better not talk to me about General Wolfe. He did nothing but die of his wound; that’s a poor haction, I consider. Any other man ’ud have died o’ the wounds I’ve had. One of my sword-cuts ’ud ha’ killed a fellow like General Wolfe.” “Mr Poulter,” Tom would say, at any allusion to the sword, “I wish you’d bring your sword and do the sword-exercise!” For a long while Mr Poulter only shook his head in a significant manner at this request, and smiled patronizingly, as Jupiter may have done when Semele urged her too ambitious request. But one afternoon, when a sudden shower of heavy rain had detained Mr Poulter twenty minutes longer than usual at the Black Swan, the sword was brought,—just for Tom to look at. “And this is the real sword you fought with in all the battles, Mr Poulter?” said Tom, handling the hilt. “Has it ever cut a Frenchman’s head off?” “Head off? Ah! and would, if he’d had three heads.” “But you had a gun and bayonet besides?” said Tom. “_I_ should like the gun and bayonet best, because you could shoot ’em first and spear ’em after. Bang! Ps-s-s-s!” Tom gave the requisite pantomime to indicate the double enjoyment of pulling the trigger and thrusting the spear. “Ah, but the sword’s the thing when you come to close fighting,” said Mr Poulter, involuntarily falling in with Tom’s enthusiasm, and drawing the sword so suddenly that Tom leaped back with much agility. “Oh, but, Mr Poulter, if you’re going to do the exercise,” said Tom, a little conscious that he had not stood his ground as became an Englishman, “let me go and call Philip. He’ll like to see you, you know.” “What! the humpbacked lad?” said Mr Poulter, contemptuously; “what’s the use of _his_ looking on?” “Oh, but he knows a great deal about fighting,” said Tom, “and how they used to fight with bows and arrows, and battle-axes.” “Let him come, then. I’ll show him something different from his bows and arrows,” said Mr Poulter, coughing and drawing himself up, while he gave a little preliminary play to his wrist. Tom ran in to Philip, who was enjoying his afternoon’s holiday at the piano, in the drawing-room, picking out tunes for himself and singing them. He was supremely happy, perched like an amorphous bundle on the high stool, with his head thrown back, his eyes fixed on the opposite cornice, and his lips wide open, sending forth, with all his might, impromptu syllables to a tune of Arne’s which had hit his fancy. “Come, Philip,” said Tom, bursting in; “don’t stay roaring ‘la la’ there; come and see old Poulter do his sword-exercise in the carriage-house!”