As a display of fancy-shooting, it was
extremely varied and curious; as an exhibition of firing with any
precise object, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a failure. It is an
established axiom, that 'every bullet has its billet.' If it apply in
an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were unfortunate
foundlings, deprived of their natural rights, cast loose upon the
world, and billeted nowhere.
'Well,' said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow, and
wiping the streams of perspiration from his jolly red face;
'smoking day, isn't it?'
'It is, indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick. The sun is tremendously
hot, even to me. I don't know how you must feel it.'
'Why,' said the old gentleman, 'pretty hot. It's past twelve,
though. You see that green hill there?'
'Certainly.'
'That's the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there's
the boy with the basket, punctual as clockwork!'
'So he is,' said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. 'Good boy, that.
I'll give him a shilling, presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.'
'Hold on, sir,' said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of
refreshments. 'Out of the vay, young leathers.
Pages:
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469