"Gad," he says to no one in particular after a swig of rum. "I think I've bent my trusty sword."

Sure enough, the scabbard, with the sword in it, nows bends gently around the back of his legs, the hilt still in front.

"Danged good thing I don't keep the pistols loaded, either," he thinks to himself. "Someone might have gotten hurt. Those flintlocks can pinch like all heck if you get your finger caught in 'em."

And he takes another sip.