"And now," ses the conjurer, at last, "I come to my celebrated watch trick. Some of you as wos 'ere last Tuesday when I did it will remember that the man I fired the pistol at pretended that 'e'd been shot and run off 'ome with it in 'is pocket."
"You're a liar!" ses Bob Pretty, standing up. "Very good," ses the conjurer; "you take that bandage off and show us all where you're hurt."
"I shall do nothing o' the kind," ses Bob. I don't take my orders from you."
"Take the bandage off," ses the conjurer, "and if there's any shot marks I'll give you a couple o' sovereigns."
"I'm afraid of the air getting to it," ses Bob Pretty.
"You don't want to be afraid o' that, Bob," ses John Biggs, the blacksmith, coming up behind and putting 'is great arms round 'im. "Take off that rag, somebody; I've got hold of 'im."
Bob Pretty started to struggle at fust, but then, seeing it was no good, kept quite quiet while they took off the bandages.
"There! look at 'im," ses the conjurer, pointing. "Not a mark on 'is face, not one."
"Wet!" ses Bob Pretty. "Do you mean to say there's no marks?"
"I do," ses the conjurer.