“You tell me some more about this shot,” invited Hemingway, sitting down beside him. “How was it you only heard one shot?”
“Becos that's all there wos to 'ear.”
“But young Reg tells me he fired a whole lot of shots.”
“'E'd tell you anything, young Reg would. Ah! and you'd swaller it!”
“Now, now! He was firing at targets, you know, in the Squire's gravel-pit.”
“Oh, “e wos, was 'e? If 'e'd told you 'e was firing at a 'erd of rhinorcerusses which 'e 'appened to find in Squire's gravel-pit, you'd swaller that too! Pleecemen! I never 'ad no opinion of 'em, and I ain't got none now, and I never will 'ave. Young Reg never fired no shot in Squire's gravel-pit. “Cos why? 'Cos if 'e 'ad, no one wouldn't 'ear it this far off. Ah! and 'e couldn't 'ave got 'isself on to this 'ere path so soon as wot 'e did do. And I'll tell you another thing, my lad! I won't 'ave you taking my character away like you're trying to!”
“I shouldn't think you've much to take away,” said Hemingway frankly. “Still, I wouldn't think of taking away what you've got left of it.”
“Oh, yes, you would!” said Mr. Biggleswade fiercely. “And don't you give me no sauce! I'll 'ave you know there ain't any man in Thornden wot knows more about guns than wot I do, and I won't 'ave you spreading it about I don't know where a shot's being fired from! Over there's where Reg fired Vicar's rifle!” A trembling and gouty finger pointed in the direction of Fox Lane.
“All right,” said Hemingway soothingly. “So what did you do?”
“I says to meself, Someone's larking about in Mr. “Aswell's spinney, I says. There, or thereabouts,” replied Mr. Biggleswade, nodding wisely.