He had searched half of the Harz Mountains to find a stick whose curve matched that of the sword. Having found it, he'd split it in half, and hollowed out a space in the middle big enough to contain the scabbard. The pommel and guard still stuck out the top, but when he added the crutch's cross-bar, then swaddled it in rags, and bound all in twine, he had a crutch that seemed innocuous enough – and if a border-guard threatened to unmake it, Jack could always cup a hand under his armpit and complain about the painful black swellings that had recently flared up there.