The publican started at this intelligence, and, under pretence of
serving another company in the next room, went out to the barn,
where, arming himself with a flail, he repaired to a lane through
which the curate was under a necessity of passing in his way home.
There he lay in ambush with fell intent; and when the supposed
author of his shame arrived, greeted him in the dark with such a
salutation as forced him to stagger backward three paces at least.
If the second application had taken effect, in all probability
that spot would have been the boundary of the parson's mortal
peregrination; but luckily for him, his antagonist was not expert
in the management of his weapon, which, by a twist of the thong
that connected the legs, instead of pitching upon the head of the
astonished curate, descended in an oblique direction on his own pate,
with such a swing that the skull actually rang like an apothecary's
mortar, and ten thousand lights seemed to dance before his eyes.
The curate recollecting himself during the respite he obtained from
this accident, and believing his aggressor to be some thief who
lurked in that place for prey, resolved to make a running fight,
until he should arrive within cry of his habitation.
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