Dicky Weed didn’t answer ’im; he was already running along to Bob Pretty’s as fast as ’is legs would take ’im, with most of us follering behind to see wot ’appened.
The door was fastened when we got to it, but Dicky Weed banged away at it as ’ard as he could bang, and at last the bedroom winder went up and Mrs. Pretty stuck her ’ead out.
“H’sh!” she ses, in a whisper. “Go away.”
“I want to see Bob,” ses Dicky Weed.
“You can’t see ’im,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “I’m getting ’im to bed. He’s been shot, pore dear. Can’t you ’ear ’im groaning?”
We ’adn’t up to then, but a’most direckly arter she ’ad spoke you could ha’ heard Bob’s groans a mile away. Dreadful, they was.
“There, there, pore dear,” ses Mrs. Pretty.
“Shall I come in and ’elp you get ’im to bed?” ses Dicky Weed, ’arf crying.