Unfortunately for his
peace of mind, however, his posterior protuberance was of such enormously
aldermanic dimensions, that it projected above the defenses, and became a
fine and laughable target for the savage marksmen, who aimed the great
majority of their shots thereat. As the bullets tore through the old
fellow's unmentionables, and raking his hide, made it smart, he would shift
his position, and endeavor to shield himself all over; but it was of no
use. In spite of all the efforts he could make, the young mountain _would_
remain in view in its exposed situation, to the great annoyance of its
owner, and the equally great merriment of the enemy. In this sad
predicament the phlegmatic hero of the flesh mountain lay, piteously
bemoaning his fate, and cursing his foes.
As the balls would rake the subnascent appendage, making it twinge with the
sharp sting, he would cry out:
"Oh! oh, Lort! haf' mercy on _me_ and _mine_!"
But his cries availed nothing; and so losing all patience, he raised up his
head, and, looking at the enemy, called to them:
"Oh, now, t'ere! quit t'at tam nonsense, will you?"
The boat was, finally, saved, with all on board, except the young man and
the horses. (For further particulars of this affair, see "Western
Adventure," page 275-6.
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