Them as was standing round laughed, and even Policeman White couldn’t ’elp giving a little smile.
“There’s nothing to laugh at,” ses Bob, ’olding his ’ead up. “It’s a fine thing when a working man—a ’ardworking man—can’t take home a little game for ’is family without being stopped and robbed.”
“I s’pose they flew into your pocket?” ses Policeman White.
“No, they didn’t,” ses Bob. “I’m not going to tell any lies about it; I put ’em there. The partridges in my inside coat-pocket and the bill in my waistcoat-pocket.”
“The bill?” ses Keeper Lewis, staring at ’im.
“Yes, the bill,” ses Bob Pretty, staring back at ’im; “the bill from Mr. Keen, the poulterer, at Wickham.”
He fetched it out of ’is pocket and showed it to Mr. White, and the keepers was like madmen a’most ’cos it was plain to see that Bob Pretty ’ad been and bought them partridges just for to play a game on ’em.
“I was curious to know wot they tasted like,” he ses to the policeman. “Worst of it is, I don’t s’pose my pore wife’ll know ’ow to cook ’em.”
“You get off ’ome,” ses Policeman White, staring at ’im.
“But ain’t I goin’ to be locked up?” ses Bob. “’Ave I been brought all this way just to ’ave a little chat with a policeman I don’t like.”