Our pieces were cocked; and at the word--Fire!--off they went. It was an act of desperation to draw the tricker, and I had hardly well shut my blinkers, when I got such a thump in the shoulder, as knocked me backwards head-over-heels on the grass. Before I came to my senses, I could have sworn I was in another world; but, when I opened my eyes, there were the men at ease, holding their sides, laughing like to spleet them; and my gun lying on the ground, two or three ell before me. When I found myself not killed outright, I began to rise up. As I was rubbing my breek-knees, I saw one of the men going forward to lift up the fatal piece; and my care for the safety of others overcame the sense of my own peril,--"Let alane--let alane!" cried I to him, "and take care of yoursell, for it has to gang off five times yet." The laughing was now terrible, but being little of a soldier, I thought, in my innocence, that we should hear as many reports as I had crammed cartridges down her muzzle. This was a sore joke against me for a length of time; but I tholed it patiently, considering cannily within myself, that knowledge is only to be bought by experience, and that, if we can credit the old song, even Johnny Cope himself did not learn the art of war in a single morning. CHAPTER XIII.--THE CHINCOUGH PILGRIMAGE. Man hath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he wends: On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends. With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. SOUTHEY. Some folks having been bred up from their cradle to the writing of books, of course naturally do the thing regularly and scientifically; but that's not to be expected from the like of me, that have followed no other way of life than the shaping and sewing line. It behoves me, therefore, to beg pardon for not being able to carry my history aye regularly straight forward, and for being forced whiles to zig-zag and vandyke. For instance, I clean forgot to give, in its proper place, a history of one of my travels, with Benjie in my bosom, in search of a cure for the chincough. My son Benjie was, at this dividual time, between four and five years old, when--poor wee chieldie!--he took the chincough, and in more respects than one was not in a good way; so the doctor recommended his mother and me, for the change of air, first to carry him down a coal-pit, and syne to the limekilns at Cousland.