I don’t suppose that room ’ad ever been tidied up so thoroughly since the Prettys ’ad lived there, but Dicky Weed couldn’t see anything o’ the watch, and wot made ’im more angry than anything else was Mrs. Pretty setting down in a chair with ’er ’ands folded in her lap and pointing out places that he ’adn’t done. “You leave ’im alone,” ses Bob. “_He knows wot ’e’s arter_. Wot did you do with those little bits o’ watch you found when you was bandaging me up, missis?” “Don’t ask me,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “I was in such a state I don’t know wot I was doing ’ardly.” “Well, they must be about somewhere,” ses Bob. “You ’ave a look for ’em, Dicky, and if you find ’em, keep ’em. They belong to you.” Dicky Weed tried to be civil and thank ’im, and then he went off ’ome and talked it over with ’is wife agin. People couldn’t make up their minds whether Bob Pretty ’ad found the watch in ’is pocket and was shamming, or whether ’e was really shot, but they was all quite certain that, whichever way it was, Dicky Weed would never see ’is watch agin. On the Saturday evening this ’ere Cauliflower public-’ouse was crowded, everybody being anxious to see the watch trick done over agin. We had ’eard that it ’ad been done all right at Cudford and Monksham; but Bob Pretty said as ’ow he’d believe it when ’e saw it, and not afore. He was one o’ the fust to turn up that night, because ’e said ’e wanted to know wot the conjurer was going to pay him for all ’is pain and suffering and having things said about ’is character. He came in leaning on a stick, with ’is face still bandaged, and sat right up close to the conjurer’s table, and watched him as ’ard as he could as ’e went through ’is tricks. “And now,” ses the conjurer, at last, “I come to my celebrated watch trick. Some of you as wos ’ere last Tuesday when I did it will remember that the man I fired the pistol at pretended that ’e’d been shot and run off ’ome with it in ’is pocket.” “You’re a liar!” ses Bob Pretty, standing up. “Very good,” ses the conjurer; “you take that bandage off and show us all where you’re hurt.” “I shall do nothing o’ the kind,” ses Bob. I don’t take my orders from you.” “Take the bandage off,” ses the conjurer, “and if there’s any shot marks I’ll give you a couple o’ sovereigns.” “I’m afraid of the air getting to it,” ses Bob Pretty. “You don’t want to be afraid o’ that, Bob,” ses John Biggs, the blacksmith, coming up behind and putting ’is great arms round ’im. “Take off that rag, somebody; I’ve got hold of ’im.” Bob Pretty started to struggle at fust, but then, seeing it was no good, kept quite quiet while they took off the bandages. “_There!_ look at ’im,” ses the conjurer, pointing. “Not a mark on ’is face, not one.” “_Wot!_” ses Bob Pretty. “Do you mean to say there’s no marks?” “I do,” ses the conjurer.