amusing than ever.

Finally, the little man, losing all patience, drew a pistol, whereon the
big man ran backwards, shrieking "Murder!" Not heeding where he was going,
he tumbled up against my table, and jammed it hard against my midriff.

I attempted to rise but was too late. The fat man seized my wrists, the
landlord and the ostler ran round, and pinned me to the chair, and the
little man held the barrel of the pistol to my forehead.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Swift Nicks!" said he.

I dare say my liver was turning the colour of chalk, but, though I'm too
easily frightened, I'm always too proud to show it, which has unjustly got
me the character of being a brave man.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Too-swift Wicks!" I retorted.

"What d'ye mean?" he asked, plainly disconcerted.

"I mean," said I, "that the zeal of your office hath eaten you up."

"What the hell does he mean?" he asked, appealing to the company.

"Damn my bones if I know," answered the host. "I've 'eerd parson say
sommat like it in church a Sundays. He's one of these 'ere silly
scholards."

"They do say as how Swift Nicks is a scholard," put in the ostler wisely.