No More Learning

' Mind you, start at the word 'away'"
Here he took his position by the stile, paused a moment as if in
profound reflection, then looked up and, I thought, smiled very
slightly, then tightened the strings of his apron, then took a long look
at Dammit, and finally gave the word as agreed upon-

_One--two--three--and--away! _

Punctually at the word "away," my poor friend set off in a strong
gallop. The stile was not very high, like Mr. Lord's--nor yet very low,
like that of Mr. Lord's reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure
that he would clear it. And then what if he did not? --ah, that was
the question--what if he did not? "What right," said I, "had the
old gentleman to make any other gentleman jump? The little old
dot-and-carry-one! who is he? If he asks me to jump, I won't do it,
that's flat, and I don't care who the devil he is. " The bridge, as I
say, was arched and covered in, in a very ridiculous manner, and there
was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all times--an echo which I
never before so particularly observed as when I uttered the four last
words of my remark.

But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an
instant. In less than five seconds from his starting, my poor Toby had
taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor
of the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he
went up.
I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration
just over the top of the stile; and of course I thought it an unusually
singular thing that he did not continue to go over. But the whole leap
was the affair of a moment, and, before I had a chance to make any
profound reflections, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back,
on the same side of the stile from which he had started. At the same
instant I saw the old gentleman limping off at the top of his speed,
having caught and wrapt up in his apron something that fell heavily into
it from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all this
I was much astonished; but I had no leisure to think, for Dammit lay
particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and
that he stood in need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found
that he had received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth
is, he had been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could
not find anywhere; so I determined to take him home and send for the
homoeopathists. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open
an adjacent window of the bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at
once. About five feet just above the top of the turnstile, and crossing
the arch of the foot-path so as to constitute a brace, there extended a
flat iron bar, lying with its breadth horizontally, and forming one of
a series that served to strengthen the structure throughout its extent.
With the edge of this brace it appeared evident that the neck of my
unfortunate friend had come precisely in contact.

He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homoeopathists did not
give him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he
hesitated to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a
lesson to all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked
a bar sinister on his family escutcheon, and, for the general expenses
of his funeral, sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists.
The scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once,
and sold him for dog's meat.