Winkle, in the
performance of some very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not
accidentally fired, at the most critical moment, over the boy's
head, exactly in the very spot where the tall man's brain would
have been, had he been there instead.
'Why, what on earth did you do that for?' said old Wardle, as
the birds flew unharmed away.
'I never saw such a gun in my life,' replied poor Mr. Winkle,
looking at the lock, as if that would do any good. 'It goes off of
its own accord. It WILL do it.'
'Will do it!' echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his
manner. 'I wish it would kill something of its own accord.'
'It'll do that afore long, Sir,' observed the tall man, in a low,
prophetic voice.
'What do you mean by that observation, Sir?' inquired Mr.
Winkle, angrily.
'Never mind, Sir, never mind,' replied the long gamekeeper;
'I've no family myself, sir; and this here boy's mother will get
something handsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he's killed on his land.
Load again, Sir, load again.'
'Take away his gun,' cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow,
horror-stricken at the long man's dark insinuations. 'Take away
his gun, do you hear, somebody?'
Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and
Mr.
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