noise nobody could hear theirselves speak. Everybody was shouting his
'ardest, and the on'y quiet one there was Bob Pretty 'imself.

"Poor Henery; he's gorn mad," he ses, shaking his 'ead.

"You're a murderer," ses Ralph Thomson, shaking 'is fist at him.

"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