“Has 'e gorn mad?” ses Bill Chambers, staring at 'im.
“Not as I knows on,” ses Bob Pretty. “It's 'is good-'artedness, that's all. He feels sure that that cat's dead, and that he'll 'ave George Barstow's cottage and furniture. I told 'im he'd better wait till he'd made sure, but 'e wouldn't.”
Before they'd finished the Prettys 'ad picked that 'ouse as clean as a bone, and Joe Clark 'ad to go and get clean straw for his wife and children to sleep on; not that Mrs. Clark 'ad any sleep that night, nor Joe neither.
Henery Walker was the fust to see what it really meant, and he went rushing off as fast as 'e could run to tell George Barstow. George couldn't believe 'im at fust, but when 'e did he swore that if a 'air of that cat's head was harmed 'e'd 'ave the law o' Bob Pretty, and arter Henery Walker 'ad gone 'e walked round to tell 'im so.
“You're not yourself, George Barstow, else you wouldn't try and take away my character like that,” ses Bob Pretty.
“Wot did Joe Clark give you all them things for?” ses George, pointing to the furniture.
“Took a fancy to me, I s'pose,” ses Bob. “People do sometimes. There's something about me at times that makes 'em like me.”
“He gave 'em to you to kill my cat,” ses George Barstow. “It's plain enough for any-body to see.”
Bob Pretty smiled. “I expect it'll turn up safe and sound one o' these days,” he ses, “and then you'll come round and beg my pardon. P'r'aps—”
“P'r'aps wot?” ses George Barstow, arter waiting a bit.