” “Not yet,” he said. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. "But trifle with mo no longer. I have always hated it. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. They will say that it was murder. Hey.
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