Splash water on him, chaps. I only meant To hit him just a clip, like, nothing more. There. Look. He isn’t dead, his eyelids went. And he went down. O God, his head’s all tore. I’ve washed and washed: it’s all one gob of gore. He don’t look dead to you? What? Nor to you? Not kill, the clip I give him, couldn’t do.’ ’God send; he looks damn bad,’ the blacksmith said. ’Py Cot,’ his mate said, ’she wass altogether; She hass an illness look of peing ted.’ ’Here. Get a glass,’ the smith said, ’and a feather.’ ’Wass you at fightings or at playings whether?’ ’Here, get a glass and feather. Quick’s the word.’ The glass was clear. The feather never stirred. ’By God, I’m sorry, Jim. That settles it.’ ’By God. I’ve killed him then.’ ’The doctor might.’ ’Try, if you like; but that’s a nasty hit.’ ’Doctor’s gone by. He won’t be back till night.’ ’Py Cot, the feather was not looking right.’ ’By Jesus, chaps, I never meant to kill ’un. Only to bat. I’ll go to p’leece and tell ’un. O Ern, for God’s sake speak, for God’s sake speak.’ No answer followed: Ern had done with dust, ’The p’leece is best,’ the smith said, ’or a beak. I’ll come along; and so the lady must. Evans, you bring the lady, will you just? Tell ’em just how it come, lad. Come your ways; And Joe, you watch the body where it lays.’ They walked to town, Jim on the blacksmith’s arm. Jimmy was crying like a child, and saying, ’I never meant to do him any harm.’ His teeth went clack, like bones at murmurs playing, And then he trembled hard and broke out praying, ’God help my poor old mother. If he’s dead, I’ve brought her my last wages home,’ he said. He trod his last free journey down the street; Treading the middle road, and seeing both sides, The school, the inns, the butchers selling meat, The busy market where the town divides. Then past the tanpits full of stinking hides, And up the lane to death, as weak as pith. ’By God, I hate this, Jimmy,’ said the smith. VI Anna in black, the judge in scarlet robes, A fuss of lawyers’ people coming, going, The windows shut, the gas alight in globes, Evening outside, and pleasant weather blowing. ’They’ll hang him?’ ’I suppose so; there’s no knowing.’ ’A pretty piece, the woman, ain’t she, John? He killed the fellow just for carrying on.’ ’She give her piece to counsel pretty clear.’ ’Ah, that she did, and when she stop she smiled.’ ’She’s had a-many men, that pretty dear; She’s drove a-many pretty fellows wild.’ ’More silly idiots they to be beguiled.’ ’Well, I don’t know.’ ’Well, I do. See her eyes? Mystery, eh? A woman’s mystery’s lies.’ ’Perhaps.’ ’No p’raps about it, that’s the truth. I know these women; they’re a rotten lot.’ ’You didn’t use to think so in your youth.’ ’No; but I’m wiser now, and not so hot. Married or buried, _I_ say, wives or shot, These unmanned, unattached Maries and Susans Make life no better than a proper nuisance.’