‘What has that to say to anything?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ smiled Lucy nervously. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. But though he made Blueskin and Kettleby his chief marks, he missed both. Lucy followed her. His sword then came in for his scrutiny: he felt at, and appeared satisfied with its edge.
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