Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and wounded

           Hewasratheralarmed;forhewasnotquitecertainbutthatthedistressoftheagriculturalinterest,aboutwhichhehadoftenheardagreatdeal,mighthavecompelledthesmallboysattachedtothesoiltoearnaprecariousandhazardoussubsistencebymakingmarksofthemselvesforinexperiencedsportsmen.‘Onlytostartthegame,’repliedMr.Wardle,laughing.

           ‘Towhat?’inquiredMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Why,inplainEnglish,tofrightentherooks.’

           ‘Oh,isthatall?’

           ‘Youaresatisfied?’

           ‘Quite.’

           ‘Verywell.ShallIbegin?’

           ‘Ifyouplease,’saidMr.Winkle,gladofanyrespite.

           ‘Standaside,then.Nowforit.’

           Theboyshouted,andshookabranchwithanestonit.Halfadozenyoungrooksinviolentconversation,flewouttoaskwhatthematterwas.Theoldgentlemanfiredbywayofreply.Downfellonebird,andoffflewtheothers.

           ‘Takehimup,Joe,’saidtheoldgentleman.

           Therewasasmileupontheyouth’sfaceasheadvanced.Indistinctvisionsofrook-piefloatedthroughhisimagination.Helaughedasheretiredwiththebirditwasaplumpone.

           ‘Now,Mr.Winkle,’saidthehost,reloadinghisowngun.‘Fireaway.’

           Mr.Winkleadvanced,andlevelledhisgun.Mr.

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