It hit the spot

I shot an arrow in the air. It came to earth I knew not where, until Mr. Humphrey cried out.

It hit that spot on his left ham that we had made such fun of at the nude beach (from behind him since it was on his behind).

I should not have shot that arrow up in the air like that. It had to come down somewhere unless it hit a bird, which would have been worse. I was the only one holding a bow, a dead giveaway.

“You, Fred,” Mr. Humphry said. “I’ll whip you now with your own arrow. Lucky for you it was no more than a glancing blow.”

Not lucky for me. If the arrow had penetrated his ham, he could not whip me with it. The barb would have secured itself in the wound.

“May I fortify myself, Sir,” I said.

“Do so and approach,” he said.

I took a long draught of the strong stuff, against the pain to come. It hit the spot.

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