and, pointing his right forefinger, uttered the symbolic word,
"Bing!"

The plot was somewhat indefinite; yet nothing is more certain
than that the electric-light pole had first attempted something
against him, then growing bitter when slapped, and stealing after
him to take him treacherously in the back, had got itself shot
through and through by one too old in such warfare to be caught
off his guard.

Leaving the body to lie where it was, he placed the smoking
pistol in a holster at his saddlebow--he had decided that he was
mounted--and proceeded up the street. At intervals he indulged
himself in other encounters, reining in at first suspicion of
ambush with a muttered, "Whoa, Charlie!" or "Whoa, Mike!" or even
"Whoa, Washington!" for preoccupation with the enemy outweighed
attention to the details of theatrical consistency, though the
steed's varying names were at least harmoniously masculine, since
a boy, in these, creative moments, never rides a mare. And having
brought Charlie or Mike or Washington to a standstill, Penrod
would draw the sure weapon from its holster and--"Bing! Bing!
Bing!"--let them have it.

It is not to be understood that this was a noisy performance, or
even an obvious one. It attracted no attention from any
pedestrian, and it was to be perceived only that a boy was
proceeding up the street at a somewhat irregular gait. Three or
four years earlier, when Penrod was seven or eight, he would have
shouted "Bing!" at the top of his voice; he would have galloped
openly; all the world might have seen that he bestrode a charger.