The Bosula host grouped, lantern-lit, round the king tree of the orchard; Martha dashed the jug against the trunk and pronounced her incantation:
“Health to thee, good apple tree!
Hatsful, packsful, great bushel-bags full!
Hurrah and fire off the gun.”
Everybody cheered. Bohenna steadied himself and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening roar, a yard-long tongue of flame spurted from the muzzle, Bohenna tumbled over backwards and Jiggy Dan, uttering an appalling shriek, fell on his face and lay still.
The scared spectators stooped over the fiddler.
“Dead is a?”
“Ess, dead sure ’nough—dead as last year, pore soul.”
Panegyrics on the deceased were delivered.
“A brilliant old drinker a was.”