"He 's a bull-terrier too," said Tom Titus, "I knows it by 's growl. It 's the worsest and dargdest to go maad as is."
"Well, what shall us do wi' th' warment?" said Tooler.
"Shoot him! shoot him!" cried the gentleman in black.
"O, I 've goot a blunderbus, Bob!" said Tom Titus, "yow run for 't together, it 's top o' the forge."
Bob started at once, and Tom kept on the bar, while Tooler, Sam, and Harry, and Bob held the heads of the horses.
"He 's got un; all right!" cried Tom Titus, as Bob neared the coach with the weapon on his shoulder. "Yow 'll be doon in noo time," he added as he felt with his rod to ascertain in which corner of the boot the bull-terrier lay.
"Is she loarded?" asked Bob, as he handed Tom Titus the instrument of death.
"Mind you make the shot come out at bottom," shouted Tooler.
"I hool," said Tom Titus, putting the weapon to his shoulder. "Noo the Loord ha' marcy on yar, as joodge says sizes," and instantly let fly.
The horses of course plunged considerably, but still did no mischief; and before the smoke had evaporated, Valentine introduced into the boot a low melancholy howl, which convinced Tom Titus that the shot had taken effect.