Leaving the body to lie where it was, he placed the smoking
pistol in a holster at his saddlebow--he had decided that he was
mounted--and proceeded up the street. At intervals he indulged
himself in other encounters, reining in at first suspicion of
ambush with a muttered, "Whoa, Charlie!" or "Whoa, Mike!" or even
"Whoa, Washington!" for preoccupation with the enemy outweighed
attention to the details of theatrical consistency, though the
steed's varying names were at least harmoniously masculine, since
a boy, in these, creative moments, never rides a mare. And having
brought Charlie or Mike or Washington to a standstill, Penrod
would draw the sure weapon from its holster and--"Bing! Bing!
Bing!"--let them have it.
It is not to be understood that this was a noisy performance, or
even an obvious one. It attracted no attention from any
pedestrian, and it was to be perceived only that a boy was
proceeding up the street at a somewhat irregular gait. Three or
four years earlier, when Penrod was seven or eight, he would have
shouted "Bing!" at the top of his voice; he would have galloped
openly; all the world might have seen that he bestrode a charger.
Pages:
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52