“Henery Walker's gorn mad,” ses Bob agin. “Why, I ain't been near the place. There's a dozen men'll swear that I was at Wickham each time these misfortunate accidents 'appened.” “Men like you, they'd swear anything for a pot o' beer,” ses Henery. “But I'm not going to waste time talking to you, Bob Pretty. I'm going straight off to tell Mr. Sutton.” “I shouldn't do that if I was you, Henery,” ses Bob. “I dessay,” ses Henery Walker; “but then you see I am.” “I thought you'd gorn mad, Henery,” ses Bob, taking a drink o' beer that somebody 'ad left on the table by mistake, “and now I'm sure of it. Why, if you tell Mr. Sutton that it wasn't his friends that shot them pore fellers he won't pay them anything. 'Tain't likely 'e would, is it?” Henery Walker, wot 'ad been standing up looking fierce at 'im, sat down agin, struck all of a heap. “And he might want your ten pounds back, Henery,” said Bob in a soft voice. “And seeing as 'ow you was kind enough to give five to me, and spent most of the other, it 'ud come 'ard on you, wouldn't it? Always think afore you speak, Henery. I always do.” Henery Walker got up and tried to speak, but 'e couldn't, and he didn't get 'is breath back till Bob said it was plain to see that he 'adn't got a word to say for 'imself. Then he shook 'is fist at Bob and called 'im a low, thieving, poaching murderer. “You're not yourself, Henery,” ses Bob. “When you come round you'll be sorry for trying to take away the character of a pore labourin' man with a ailing wife and a large family. But if you take my advice you won't say anything more about your wicked ideas; if you do, these pore fellers won't get a farthing. And you'd better keep quiet about the club mates for their sakes. Other people might get the same crazy ideas in their silly 'eads as Henery. Keepers especially.” That was on'y common sense; but, as John Biggs said, it did seem 'ard to think as 'ow Bob Pretty should be allowed to get off scot-free, and with Henery Walker's five pounds too. “There's one thing,” he ses to Bob; “you won't 'ave any of these other pore chaps' money; and, if they're men, they ought to make it up to Henery Walker for the money he 'as saved 'em by finding you out.” “They've got to pay me fust,” ses Bob. “I'm a pore man, but I'll stick up for my rights. As for me shooting 'em, they'd ha' been 'urt a good deal more if I'd done it—especially Mr. Henery Walker. Why, they're hardly 'urt at all.” “Don't answer 'im, Henery,” ses John Biggs. “You save your breath to go and tell Sam Jones and the others about it. It'll cheer 'em up.” “And tell 'em about my arf, in case they get too cheerful and go overdoing it,” ses Bob Pretty, stopping at the door. “Good-night all.”