A blustering wind arose, and like a burly coachman on mounting his box, took up the rain!
The two crouching friends taking advantage of the cessation in the storm, prepared to start. But in straightening the acute angles of their legs and arms, Mr. Sprigg's piece, by some entanglement in his protecting garb, went off, and the barrel striking Mr. Grubb upon the os nasi, stretched him bawling on the humid turf.
“O! Lord! I'm shot.”
“O! my heye!” exclaimed the trembling Spriggs.
“O! my nose!” roared Grubb.
“Here's a go!”
“It's no go!—I'm a dead man!” blubbered Mr. Richard. Mr. Augustus Spriggs now raised his chum upon his legs, and was certainly rather alarmed at the sanguinary effusion.
“Vere's your hankercher?—here!—take mine,—that's it—there!—let's look at it.”
“Can you see it?” said Grubb, mournfully twisting about his face most ludicrously, and trying at the same time to level his optics towards the damaged gnomon.
“Yes!”