ng a pint a week for Bob Pretty for months nearly sent some
of 'em out of their minds.

"It can't be 'elped," ses Mr. Smith. "He 'ad the pluck to draw fust, and
he won; anybody else might ha' done it. He gave you the offer, George
Kettle, and you, too, Henery Walker."

Henery Walker was too low-spirited to answer 'im; and arter Smith 'ad
said "Hush!" to George Kettle three times, he up and put 'im outside for
the sake of the 'ouse.

When 'e came back it was all quiet and everybody was staring their
'ardest at little Dicky Weed, the tailor, who was sitting with his head
in his 'ands, thinking, and every now and then taking them away and
looking up at the ceiling, or else leaning forward with a start and
looking as if 'e saw something crawling on the wall.

"Wot's the matter with you?" ses Mr. Smith.

Dicky Weed didn't answer 'im. He shut his eyes tight and then 'e jumps
up all of a sudden. "I've got it!" he says. "Where's that bag?"

"Wot bag?" ses Mr. Smith, staring at 'im. "The bag with the papers in,"
ses Dicky.

"Where Bob Pretty ought to be," ses Bill Chambers. "On the fire."

"Wot?" screams Dicky Weed. "Now you've been and spoilt everything!"

"Speak English," ses Bill.

"I will!" ses Dicky, trembling all over with temper. "Who asked you to
put it on the fire? Who asked you to put yourself forward? I see it all
now, and it's too late."

"Wot's too late?" ses Sam Tones.

"When Bob Pretty put his 'and in that bag," ses Dicky Weed, holding up
'is finger and looking at them, "he'd got a bit o' paper already in it--a
bit o' paper with the figger I on it. That's 'ow he done it. While we
was all watching Mr. Smith, he was getting 'is own bit o' paper ready."

He 'ad to say it three times afore they understood 'im, and then they
went down on their knees and burnt their fingers picking up bits o' paper
that 'ad fallen in the fireplace. They found six pieces in all, but not
one with the number they was looking for on it, and then they all got up
and said wot ought to be done to Bob Pretty.

"You can't do anything," ses Smith, the landlord. "You can't prove it.
After all, it's only Dicky's idea."

Arf-a-dozen of 'em all began speaking at once, but Bill Chambers gave 'em
the wink, and pretended to agree with 'im.

"We're going to have that hamper back," he ses, as soon as Mr. Smith 'ad
gone back to the bar, "but it won't do to let 'im know. He don't like to
think that Bob Pretty was one to