Witness.—"Certainly—certainly. Well, German or no German,—which I'll take my oath I don't believe she is, being of a red-headed disposition, with long, bony fingers, and no more hankering after Limberger cheese than—"
Lawyer.—"Stop that driveling nonsense and stick to the assault and battery. Go on with your story."
Witness.—"Well, sir, she—that is, Jones—he sidled up and drawed his revolver and tried to shoot the top of Smith's head off, and Smith run, and Sophronia she walloped herself down in the saw-dust and screamed twice, just as loud as she could yell. I never see a poor creature in such distress—and then she sung out: 'O, H—ll's fire! What are they up to now? Ah, my poor dear mother, I shall never see you more!'—saying which, she jerked another yell and fainted away as dead as a wax figger. Thinks I to myself, I'll be danged if this ain't gettin' rather dusty, and I'll—"
The Court.—"We have no desire to know what you thought; we only wish to know what you saw. Are you sure Mr. Jones endeavored to shoot the top of Mr. Smith's head off?"
Witness.—"Yes, your Honor."
The Court.—"How many times did he shoot?"
Witness.—"Well, sir, I couldn't say exactly as to the number—but I should think—well, say seven or eight times—as many as that, anyway."
The Court.—"Be careful now, and remember you are under oath. What kind of a pistol was it?"
Witness.—"It was a Durringer, your Honor."
The Court.—"A derringer! You must not trifle here, sir. A derringer only shoots once—how then could Jones have fired seven or eight times?" (The witness is evidently as stunned by that last proposition as if a brick had struck him.)