Jack looked at Churchill just in time to see the flint whipping round on the end of its curved arm, a spray of sparks, a preliminary bloom of smoke from the pan. Then a lady blundered in from one side, not paying attention to where she was going because she had realized that there were rats in her wig – but she didn't know how many (Jack, at a quick glance, numbered them at three, but more were raining down all the time and so he would've been loath to commit himself to a specific number). She hit Churchill's arm. A jet of fire as long as a man's arm darted from the muzzle of Churchill's pistol and caught Turk in the side of the face, though the ball apparently missed. The polite satyr was lucky to be alive – it had gone off inches from his head.