Word: shotgunned
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...morning slumbers were rudely disturbed at six o'clock by the baying of a full-throated foxhound in the grounds hard by the house. Disgruntled, too angry for mere words, sleepy Henry J. Fisher did what any one else might, or might not, have done. He seized a shotgun, drew a sportsman's aim, blew the hound's life...
...influence on his broadened young nature, though he became thoroughly grounded in French, German and Italian, and was not hindered in developing his taste for literature. At 15 he substituted Shelley for the Bible. Goethe, Heine, Swinburne, Whitman were major prophets. He was shipped to Australia at 16?a shotgun cure for chronic appendicitis ?and while teaching school in the desolate bush was "converted," by reading the pragmatic philosophers, the evolutionists and a religiously-minded biologist (James Hinton), to a rational mysticism that found no God but much joy in the mechanistic universe. This joy was an artist...
...hardy, mentally alert subscribers want this crutch? Does Subscriber Kastner shoot squirrels with a shotgun? Does he, hale and hearty, insist on eating only predigested foods? Does he wear water-wings when swimming? Does he use a bushel basket for a baseball glove...
...yellow, newspapermen often quarreled violently and in public. One editor would refer to his colleague as "that scurrile cur, that . . . slander-monger Drennelthorpe, of the Courier Gazette . . . whereupon Mr. Drennelthorpe would visit the writer with a bowie knife and a hickory cudgel. Every reporter was trained to use a shotgun, and in most composing rooms a portrait of Andrew Jackson looked down with sombre eyes upon a neat rack of buggy-whips. Newspaper men still quarrel. Most of them do so with a certain reticence. Respecting the dignity of their differences, they wage their wars out of sight. But last...
...said to his friend, "If you can shoot it out of my hand, it's yours." After some wrangling, the details of the wager were satisfactorily arranged. Mr. Beres took his place, holding the 50? aloft between thumb and forefinger. His friend put a shell in his shotgun, drew a careful bead. Pow! went the gun. The coin, dented by dozens of buckshot, careered away. . . . With it went the end of Proprietor Beres' thumb...