ll Chambers ten pounds to make up for 'is sufferings.

Bill 'ad intended to lay up for another week, and the doctor, wot 'ad
been calling twice a day, said he wouldn't be responsible for 'is life if
he didn't; but the ten pounds was too much for 'im, and one evening, just
a week arter the accident, he turned up at this _Cauliflower_ public-'ouse
and began to spend 'is money.

His face was bandaged up, and when 'e come in he walked feeble-like and
spoke in a faint sort o' voice. Smith, the landlord, got 'im a
easy-chair and a couple of pillers out o' the parlour, and Bill sat there
like a king, telling us all his sufferings and wot it felt like to be
shot.

I always have said wot a good thing beer is, and it done Bill more good
than doctor's medicine. When he came in he could 'ardly crawl, and at
nine o'clock 'e was out of the easy-chair and dancing on the table as
well as possible. He smashed three mugs and upset about two pints o'
beer, but he just put his 'and in his pocket and paid for 'em without a
word.

"There's plenty more where that came from," he ses, pulling out a handful
o' money.

Peter Gubbins looked at it, 'ardly able to speak. "It's worth while
being shot to 'ave all that money," he ses, at last.

"Don't you worry yourself, Peter," ses Bob Pretty; "there's plenty more
of you as'll be shot afore them gentlemen at the Hall 'as finished.
Bill's the fust, but 'e won't be the last--not by a long chalk."

"They're more careful now," ses Dicky Weed, the tailor.

"All right; 'ave it your own way," ses Bob, nasty-like. "I don't know
much about shooting, being on'y a pore labourin' man. All I know is I
shouldn't like to go beating for them. I'm too fond o' my wife and
family."

"There won't be no more shot," ses Sam Jones.

"We're too careful," ses Peter Gubbins.

"Bob Pretty don't know everything," ses Dicky Weed.

"I'll bet you what you like there'll be some more of you shot," ses Bob
Pretty, in a temper. "Now, then."

"'Ow much'll you bet, Bob," ses Sam Jones, with a wink at the others.
"I can see you winking, Sam Jones," ses Bob Pretty, "but I'll do more
than bet. The last bet I won is still owing to me. Now, look 'ere; I'll
pay you sixpence a week all the time you're beating if you promise to
give me arf of wot you get if you're shot. I can't say fairer than
that."

"Will you give me sixpence a week, too?" ses Henery Walker, jumping up.

"I will," ses Bob; "and anybody else that l