Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks, which they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating barrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause⁠—a shout⁠—a flapping of wings⁠—a faint click.

“Hallo!” said the old gentleman.

“Won’t it go?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“Missed fire,” said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale⁠—probably from disappointment.

“Odd,” said the old gentleman, taking the gun. “Never knew one of them miss fire before. Why, I don’t see anything of the cap.”