Now my mind was firmly made up that no man should cross the gap if I could help it, and recognizing that Hoggett was the men's leader, and that without him they would scarce attempt anything, I took steady aim at him, not intending to kill him, for I had another fate in store for him, but to hit the arm by which he held the bridge. I was by this time a pretty good marksman at a target, whether stationary or the running man, but the necessity of aiming down-hill clean put me out, so that instead of hitting Hoggett's arm, my arrow pierced the calf of his leg. He let forth a terrible curse, and, loosing his hold on the bridge, clapped his hand to his leg and pulled out the shaft, then sat down upon the ground and began to bind up the wound with a strip torn from his shirt. The moment of my hitting him was the same moment when the bridge was thrown across the gap, and I hoped that it would fall from the men's hands into the channel, but it had been well aimed and fell plumb on the ledge. However, when the men saw Hoggett wounded, and pretty badly, to judge by his language, they drew back, none of them caring to be the first to venture on the bridge and to encounter an arrow from above. Hoggett roared to them to go on, but every man looked at other to lead the way. He cried to Wabberley, but Wabberley was much in the rear; and then to Chick, but Chick was not on this occasion obliging; indeed, I observed him, being a small man, hiding himself from Hoggett's gaze behind Wabberley's more massive frame, and Wabberley trying in his turn to put Chick in front of him. This backwardness on the part of the men inflamed Hoggett to an excess of rage, and he swore that as soon as he had bound up his leg he would cross that bridge and teach those young (here a very bad word) that he was not going to be played with no more.