"Yours is a very unpleasant profession," said I.
"A man must live!"
"But," said I, "supposing you get hit?"
"Them as 'its me gets a cigar!"
"Doesn't it hurt you?"
"Oh! you gets used to it—though, to be sure, they don't 'it me very often, or it would be a loss; cigars is expensive—leastways they costs money."
"But surely a wooden image would serve your turn just as well."
"A wooden image!" exclaimed the man disgustedly. "James!—you must be a fool, you must! Who wants to throw at a wooden image—you can't 'urt a wooden image, can you—if you throwed 'eavens 'ard at a wooden image that there wooden image wouldn't flinch, would it? When a man throws at anything 'e likes to 'it it—that's 'uman—and when 'e 'its it 'e likes to see it flinch—that's 'uman too, and when it flinches, why—'e rubs 'is 'ands, and takes another shot—and that's the 'umanest of all. So you see, young cove, you're a fool with your wooden image."
Now, as he ended, I stooped, very suddenly, and caught hold of his wrist—and then I saw that he held my purse in his hand. It was a large hand with bony knuckles, and very long fingers, upon one of which was a battered ring. He attempted, at first, to free himself of my grip, but, finding this useless, stood glowering at me with one eye and leering with the other.
"Ha!" said I.