“Don't talk about money while them pore chaps is suffering,” ses Bob. “I'm surprised at you, Henery.”
“You won't 'ave a farthing of it,” ses Henery Walker; “and wot's more, Bob Pretty, I'm going to 'ave my five pounds back.”
“Don't you believe it, Henery,” ses Bob, smiling at 'im.
“I'm going to 'ave my five pounds back,” ses Henery, “and you know why. I know wot your club was for now, and we was all a pack o' silly fools not to see it afore.”
“Speak for yourself, Henery,” ses John Biggs, who thought Henery was looking at 'im.
“I've been putting two and two together,” ses Henery, looking round, “and it's as plain as the nose on your face. Bob Pretty hid up in the wood and shot us all himself!”
For a moment you might 'ave heard a pin drop, and then there was such a noise nobody could hear theirselves speak. Everybody was shouting his 'ardest, and the on'y quiet one there was Bob Pretty 'imself.
“Poor Henery; he's gorn mad,” he ses, shaking his 'ead.
“You're a murderer,” ses Ralph Thomson, shaking 'is fist at him.
“Henery Walker's gorn mad,” ses Bob agin. “Why, I ain't been near the place. There's a dozen men'll swear that I was at Wickham each time these misfortunate accidents 'appened.”