He walked back to the other end of the room and held up the pistol. “I shall now fire this pistol,” ’e ses, “and in so doing mend the watch. The explosion of the powder makes the bits o’ glass join together agin; in flying through the air the wheels go round and round collecting all the other parts, and the watch as good as new and ticking away its ’ardest will be found in the coat-pocket o’ the gentleman I shoot at.” He pointed the pistol fust at one and then at another, as if ’e couldn’t make up ’is mind, and none of ’em seemed to ’ave much liking for it. Peter Gubbins told ’im not to shoot at ’im because he ’ad a ’ole in his pocket, and Bill Chambers, when it pointed at ’im, up and told ’im to let somebody else ’ave a turn. The only one that didn’t flinch was Bob Pretty, the biggest poacher and the greatest rascal in Claybury. He’d been making fun o’ the tricks all along, saying out loud that he’d seen ’em all afore—and done better. “Go on,” he ses; “I ain’t afraid of you; you can’t shoot straight.” The conjurer pointed the pistol at ’im. Then ’e pulled the trigger and the pistol went off bang, and the same moment o’ time Bob Pretty jumped up with a ’orrible scream, and holding his ’ands over ’is eyes danced about as though he’d gone mad. Everybody started up at once and got round ’im, and asked ’im wot was the matter; but Bob didn’t answer ’em. He kept on making a dreadful noise, and at last ’e broke out of the room and, holding ’is ’andkercher to ’is face, ran off ’ome as ’ard as he could run. “You’ve done it now, mate,” ses Bill Chambers to the conjurer. “I thought you wouldn’t be satisfied till you’d done some ’arm. You’ve been and blinded pore Bob Pretty.” “Nonsense,” ses the conjurer. “He’s frightened, that’s all.” “Frightened!” ses Peter Gubbins. “Why, you fired Dicky Weed’s watch straight into ’is face.” “Rubbish,” ses the conjurer; “it dropped into ’is pocket, and he’ll find it there when ’e comes to ’is senses.” “Do you mean to tell me that Bob Pretty ’as gone off with my watch in ’is pocket?” screams Dicky Weed. “I do,” ses the other. “You’d better get ’old of Bob afore ’e finds it out, Dicky,” ses Bill Chambers. Dicky Weed didn’t answer ’im; he was already running along to Bob Pretty’s as fast as ’is legs would take ’im, with most of us follering behind to see wot ’appened. [Illustration] The door was fastened when we got to it, but Dicky Weed banged away at it as ’ard as he could bang, and at last the bedroom winder went up and Mrs. Pretty stuck her ’ead out. “_H’sh!_” she ses, in a whisper. “Go away.” “I want to see Bob,” ses Dicky Weed. “You can’t see ’im,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “I’m getting ’im to bed. He’s been shot, pore dear. Can’t you ’ear ’im groaning?” We ’adn’t up to then, but a’most direckly arter she ’ad spoke you could ha’ heard Bob’s groans a mile away. Dreadful, they was. “There, there, pore dear,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “Shall I come in and ’elp you get ’im to bed?” ses Dicky Weed, ’arf crying.