The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the shade
of the bridge -- a few paces back from the turnstile. "My good fellow,"
said he, "I make it a point of conscience to allow you this much run. Wait
here, till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see whether you go
over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don't omit any flourishes of
the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say 'one, two, three, and
away.' Mind you, start at the word 'away'" Here he took his position by
the stile, paused a moment as if in profound reflection, then looked up
and, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the strings of his
apron, then took a long look at Dammit, and finally gave the word as
agreed upon-

_One -- two -- three -- and -- away!_

Punctually at the word "away," my poor friend set off in a strong gallop.
The stile was not very high, like Mr. Lord's -- nor yet very low, like
that of Mr. Lord's reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he would
clear it. And then what if he did not? -- ah, that was the question --
what if he did not? "What right," said I, "had the old gentleman to make
any other gentleman jump? The little old dot-and-carry-one! who is he? If
he asks me to jump, I won't do it, that's flat, and I don't care who the
devil he is." The bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a very
ridiculous manner, and there was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all
times -- an echo which I never before so particularly observed as when I
uttered the four last words of my remark.

But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an
instant. In less than five seconds from his starting, my poor Toby had
taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor of
the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he went up.