I used to sit for hours in my glass cage, watching the long, narrow rafts slip along through the central channel, grazing the right-bank dike and aiming
carefully for the middle arch of the stone bridge below; I watched them in this way, and lost all this time hoping to see one of them hit the bridge-pier and wreck itself sometime or other, but was always disappointed.
He was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a pistol raised in his right hand -- not aiming
it, but holding it out with the barrel tilted up towards the sky.
I got up on a pretty high rock, and got a good start, and went swooping down, aiming
for a bush a little over three hundred yards off; but I couldn't seem to calculate for the wind, which was about two points abaft my beam.