Galloping Dick
Bishop, and accepted like a good highwayman. And here’s my hand on it,” says I.
And at that, flinging off Calypso, I sprang up at him and clutched the wrist that held the pistol.
The Bishop was fat and old and awkward, but for all that he was no child at pap, and he made a gallant wrench or two for liberty. He struggled with my hands, heaving his poor old shoulders up and down with stiff ungainly motions till I fell to laughing again, and had well-nigh desisted for laughter. But then, all of a sudden, there came a sharp little crack, a hard smack fell on my leg, and the flesh of it pinched and burned and tingled as if it had been scratched by the Devil. I hopped and danced upon the snow, and swore out my soul; and then, jerking out my sword, I limped forward, and, seizing the Bishop’s bridle, put the point swiftly to his breast. He never blenched, but looked critically and with interest at my leg.
“That,” says he mournfully, “is but my second shot, and the pity of it is that both hit of accident.”
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