“That's some way off, grandfather,” Hemingway suggested.
“It 'ud 'ave 'ad to 'ave been a sight further off for me not to 'ear it,” said Mr. Biggleswade, with a senile chuckle. “Very sharp ears I've got! A lot of people 'ave wished I didn't 'ear so quick when I was in me prime.”
“I'll bet they did. You're a wonder, that's what you are, grandfather. It can't have made much of a noise, either, at this distance.”
“No one never said it did. If you'd 'eard it, you wouldn't 'ardly 'ave noticed it, I dessay. And as for that walking tombstone o' yours, “e'd 'ave thought it was a motor-car back-firing up on the 'Awks'ead-road as like as not.”
“Oh, no, I would not!” said Harbottle, stung into a retort.
“Shut up, Horace! Don't you pay any heed to him, grandfather! What happened after the shot? Did you see anyone besides Reg Ditchling?”
“No, I didn't. I wasn't going to go poking my nose into wot wasn't none of my business. I ain't a nasty, nosy pleeceman! I set off down this 'ere path, like I told 'Obkirk, and I 'adn't gorn so very far when I 'eard someone be'ind me, same like you'd 'ear one of them game-keepers when 'e was trying to creep on you. And I looked round, quick-like, and I see young Reg 'iding be'ind one of the bushes.”
“Down the other end of the path that was, wasn't it?”
“Right down the other end,” corroborated Mr. Biggleswade.
“How long after you heard the shot would that have been?”