“They're more careful now,” ses Dicky Weed, the tailor.
“All right; 'ave it your own way,” ses Bob, nasty-like. “I don't know much about shooting, being on'y a pore labourin' man. All I know is I shouldn't like to go beating for them. I'm too fond o' my wife and family.”
“There won't be no more shot,” ses Sam Jones.
“We're too careful,” ses Peter Gubbins.
“Bob Pretty don't know everything,” ses Dicky Weed.
“I'll bet you what you like there'll be some more of you shot,” ses Bob Pretty, in a temper. “Now, then.”
“'Ow much'll you bet, Bob,” ses Sam Jones, with a wink at the others. “I can see you winking, Sam Jones,” ses Bob Pretty, “but I'll do more than bet. The last bet I won is still owing to me. Now, look 'ere; I'll pay you sixpence a week all the time you're beating if you promise to give me arf of wot you get if you're shot. I can't say fairer than that.”
“Will you give me sixpence a week, too?” ses Henery Walker, jumping up.
“I will,” ses Bob; “and anybody else that likes. And wot's more, I'll pay in advance. Fust sixpences now.”
Claybury men 'ave never been backward when there's been money to be made easy, and they all wanted to join Bob Pretty's club, as he called it. But fust of all 'e asked for a pen and ink, and then he got Smith, the land-lord, being a scholard, to write out a paper for them to sign. Henery Walker was the fust to write 'is name, and then Sam Jones, Peter Gubbins, Ralph Thomson, Jem Hall, and Walter Bell wrote theirs. Bob stopped 'em then, and said six 'ud be enough to go on with; and then 'e paid up the sixpences and wished 'em luck.