Then I smuggled the unlucky pistol out of my pocket in my handkerchief, and whistled still more cheerfully.

Although no one was looking, it seemed prudent to adopt an air of general boredom, as if I was tired of throwing sticks into the pond.

I would only throw one more.

Even that was a fag, but I would do it.
What a plump, noisy splash it made, sending out circles far and near, and gurgling in a sickening way as it sank in a very unsticklike fashion to the bottom.
My whistling ceased, my air of dejection increased.

I must be unsociable no longer.