"
"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: "He was running along to Bob Pretty's as fast as 'is legs
would take 'im."]
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.
"No, thank you, Mr.
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