"V'y sir," said he at last, "Number Three vill be a corp."
"A what?" said Barnabas.
"A corp, sir—a stiff—"
"Do you mean—dead?"
"Ah,—I mean werry much so!" nodded Mr. Shrig.
"Number Three vill be stone cold,—somev'eres in the country it'll 'appen, I fancy,—say in a vood! And the leaves'll keep a-fluttering over 'im, and the birds'll keep a-singing to 'im,—oh, Number Three'll be comfortable enough,—'e von't 'ave to vorry about nothink no more, it'll be Number Vun and Number Two as'll do the vorrying, and me—till I gets my 'ooks on 'em, and then—"
"But," said Barnabas earnestly, "why not try to prevent it?"
"Prewent it, sir?" said Mr. Shrig, in a tone of pained surprise.
"Prewent it? Lord, Mr. Barty, sir—then vere vould my murder case be?
Besides, I ain't so onprofessional as to step in afore my time.
Prewent it? No, sir. My dooty is to apprehend a man arter the crime,
not afore it."
"But surely you don't mean to allow this unfortunate person to be done to death?"
"Sir," said Mr. Shrig, beginning to finger his ear again, "unfort'nate wictims is born to be—vell, let's say—unfort'nate. You can't 'elp 'em being born wictims. I can't 'elp it,—nobody can't, for natur' vill 'ave 'er own vay, sir, and I ain't vun to go agin natur' nor yet to spile a good case,—good cases is few enough. Oh, life ain't all lavender, as I said afore,—burn my neck if it is!" And here Mr. Shrig shook his head again, sighed again, and walked on in a somewhat gloomy silence.