It was easy to see that something was wrong.

Presently he sprang up and said: "Thunder and lightning! Do you suppose I am going to speak of those cattle that way?
Do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand such gruel as that?
Give me the pen!" I never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, or plow through another man's verbs and adjectives so relentlessly.

While he was in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open window, and marred the symmetry of my ear.
"Ah," said he, "that is that scoundrel Smith, of the Moral Volcano--he was due yesterday." And he snatched a navy revolver from his belt and fired--Smith dropped, shot in the thigh.

The shot spoiled Smith's aim, who was just taking a second chance and he crippled a stranger.

It was me.