"Did any of the shots strike her?"

"I don't understand you."

"You said he kept shooting past her, and I thought maybe some of the
bullets might have struck her."

"Why, I meant that he _ran_ past her, of course. How in the thunder
could he shoot bullets at her?"

"I thought maybe he had a gun. But I don't understand any of it. It is
the most astounding thing I ever heard of, at any rate."

"Now, my dear sir, I want to ask you how Longfellow _could_ manage a
gun?"

"Why, as any other man does, of course."

"Man! man! Why, merciful Moses! you didn't think I was talking about
human beings all this time, did you? Why, Longfellow is a horse! They
were racing--running races over at the course this afternoon; and I
was trying to tell you about it."

"You don't say?" remarked the doctor, with a sigh of relief. "Well, I
declare, I thought you were speaking of the poet, and I hardly knew
whether to believe you or not; it seemed so strange that he should
behave in that manner."

Then Mr. Butterwick went into the smoking-car to tell the joke to his
friends, and the doctor sat reflecting upon the outrageous impudence