The proprietor of the shooting
gallery, alerted by the sounds of counterfeit combat, appears; bare-headed and
bare-chested, still in the performance of his morning toilet. Mr. George is a
swarthy brown man of fifty; well-made, and good-looking; with crisp dark hair,
bright eyes, and a broad chest. His step is measured and heavy, and would go
well with a weighty clash and a jingle of spurs. He is close-shaved now, but
his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with a great
moustache. Altogether, one might guess Mr. George to have been a trooper once
upon a time. He rubs, and puffs, and polishes himself upon a large jack-towel,
turning his head from side to side on occasion, the more conveniently to
excoriate his throat; and when this chafing is over he pulls on a shirt, hoists
a pair of braces onto his broad shoulders, and buttons up his tunic.
The
Chicken makes the necessary introductions, and Mr.George makes Mr. Headstone’s
acquaintance by shaking that gentleman firmly by the hand and clapping him
roundly on the back, which gestures of familiarity provide the pedagogue with
ample evidence of the trooper’s Herculean qualities. The Chicken having made
known the purpose of their visit, Mr. George casts a professional eye upon Mr.
Headstone’s lean frame and announces that it wants flesh, and proposes a turn
at the dumb-bells. Obedient to his command, Phil Squod fetches a pair. He has a
curious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder against the wall,
and tacking off at objects as he wants to lay hold of, instead of going
straight to them. Phil returns in the
same roundabout fashion with a pair of dumb-bells, which he carries in one hand
as if he had no idea what weight was. He tosses these instruments to Mr. Headstone
under the mistaken assumption that that gentleman is endowed with both the
dexterity and the strength required to receive them. The pedagogue deflects one
of these projectiles with his shoulder, and the other with the crown of his
head, and is laid out on the matting much as if he had received a knockout blow, which, indeed, he has. Mr.George, the Chicken, and Phil Squod gather round the prostrate form, and shake their heads in disappointment.
