But the poet waved him aside.
"There shall be no—" he hesitated.
This rat was surely uglier than the last.
"No unseemly haste," concluded the poet.
Did the rat scent danger? I know not, but, on a sudden, he turned back to shelter. And, alas, this was too much for even Principle and Conscience—and whang went the catapult, and lo, even as by a miracle (which, indeed, it surely was), the bullet found its mark.
And I regret to say that the vicar, leaning unnoticed on a neighbouring gate, heard the poet exclaim, with some exultation: "Got him."
"Oh, well hit!" cried Tommy. "By Jove, that was a ripping shot."
The poet blushed at the praise—but alas for human pleasures, and notably stolen ones, for they are fleeting.
"Hullo," said a sonorous voice.
They both turned, and the vicar smiled.