“Never,” I replied; “but there appears to be no difficulty in it whatever.”
“’Tis far more difficult than you imagine,” he replied; “it was months before I got into the way of it; here,” he continued, “if you are determined, you must. Now, twist your wrist thus, or you will infallibly hit your thumb: there, so!”
“Oh! I see,” said I; and immediately seized the bow.
A dove sat invitingly on a neighbouring bough; I gave a long pull and a strong pull, and, och! hit my thumb a whack that bared it to the bone. Away I tossed the pellet-bow to the distance of about twenty yards, thrust the mutilated member into my mouth, and immediately fell to dancing something very like Jim Crow. In a little time the agony subsided; I had swathed the ex-member in fine linen, when Fyz Buccas came to summon us to dinner.
“Come along, sir,” said I; “I hope you can dine off a hind-quarter of mutton and a Bombay pudding.”
“Nothing can be better,” said he; “but where did you get your meat?”
“I bought it of a bazaar fellow at Allahabad, and a splendid joint it is.”
My companion, more experienced in the tricks of India than myself, smiled incredulously, and then looked a little grave.
“I hope they have not given you a made-up article.”
“Made-up!” said I; “I don’t understand you.”