An Act of Spontaneity In The Face of Combustion

The mock hostilities having finally been brought to a close, Mr. Headstone emerges from behind the deal board to find the Game Chicken and the diminutive figure in cap and apron enveloped in a companionable cloud of tobacco smoke. The latter gentleman is introduced as Phil Squod, whom the Chicken is proud to display as a living example of the incombustible nature of man, and whose history of incendiary misfortunes – which include being scorched in an accident at a gas-works, and being blown out of a window whilst case-filling in the firework business – is testament to the fact that (the recent unfortunate demise of a rag and bone dealer in Chancery Lane notwithstanding) individuals are not inclined to burn as easily as wicks or tows. To demonstrate his conviction of this belief, the Chicken applies the smoldering tip of his cigar to the hem of his companion’s apron until it catches fire. With perfect equanimity, Phil Squod inhales the smoke as if it were the finest Virginian leaf, and remarks that it is uncommonly warm for the time of year, which observation causes much merriment between himself and the Chicken. Mr. Headstone, fearful of the imminent immolation of his new acquaintance, looks about him and spies a bucket in the corner. He takes it up, runs outside to the Pump, fills it with exceedingly cold water, and returns. Uncertain of his aim, he douses both gentlemen with the contents, which has the desired effect of dampening both the flames and their humour.

Sharpshooters

The Chicken hailed a hackney-coach and they drove away to the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, which is a centre of attraction to indifferent foreign hotels and indifferent foreigners, racket-courts, fighting-men, swordsmen, footguards, old china, gaming-houses, exhibitions, and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of sight. Alighting there, they arrive, by a court and a long whitewashed passage, at a great brick building composed of bare walls, floors, roof-rafters, and skylights; on the front of which, if it can be said to have a front, is painted GEORGE'S SHOOTING GALLERY, &c. The door to this establishment being closed, the Chicken pulled a bell-handle, which hung by a chain to the door-post, and the door was opened by a very singular-looking little man dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green-baize apron and cap, whose face, and hands, and dress, were blackened all over with gunpowder, and begrimed with the loading of guns. By their manner of greeting, which involved an extended bout of playful sparring, Mr. Headstone surmised that the two gentlemen were on such familiar terms that they precluded the more commonplace formalities of acquaintance. He followed them down a dreary passage into a large building with bare brick walls; where there were targets, and guns, and swords, and other paraphernalia of the sporting variety. This assortment of weaponry inspired the combatants to further demonstrations of sportsmanship, which exhibited itself at first in a duel with foils, and then in a display of marksmanship involving pistols and rifles, and clay pipes for targets. Mr. Headstone found it indispensable for his own sense of comfort and personal safety to take up a position in a corner of the room behind a screen of unpainted wood, and resolved not to emerge from this place until the echo of the last report had died down.