I asked, weren't we taking the pistol, or anyhow the long, murderous-looking pike which has hung across our broad kitchen chimney ever since I can remember? I was disappointed when my father whispered, "No," and more than disappointed—in fact, I felt mad—when Tom said, in that sneering superior way that elder brothers have:
"What do you think this is, kid—a raid against the Scots? Or do you fancy you're marching against the Spaniards?"
I was glad it was pitch dark in the kitchen where we stood whispering. There wasn't a glimmer from the fire, though that fire has never gone out in my lifetime, nor for a few years before that. But, as usual, mother had covered it with slabs of black, damp peat before we went to bed, and it wouldn't show a gleam till morning, when one poke would stir it into a cheerful blaze.
I was glad it was dark, so that Tom couldn't see my face. I was getting tired of the way he made fun of me
"What do you think this is, kid—a raid against the Scots? Or do you fancy you're marching against the Spaniards?"
I was glad it was pitch dark in the kitchen where we stood whispering. There wasn't a glimmer from the fire, though that fire has never gone out in my lifetime, nor for a few years before that. But, as usual, mother had covered it with slabs of black, damp peat before we went to bed, and it wouldn't show a gleam till morning, when one poke would stir it into a cheerful blaze.
I was glad it was dark, so that Tom couldn't see my face. I was getting tired of the way he made fun of me
