“It seems a roundabout way o’ going to work,” ses Joe.
“Wot!” screams Mrs. Prince, jumping up and waving her arms about. “Wot! Go your own way; I’ll have nothing more to do with you. And don’t blame me for anything that happens. It’s a very bad thing to come to a witch for advice and then not to do as she tells you. You ought to know that.”
“I’ll do it, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb, trembling.
“You’d better,” ses Mrs. Prince; “and mind—not a word to anybody.”
Joe promised her agin, and ’e went off and borrered a clock from Albert Price, and at twelve o’clock that night he jumped up out of bed and began to dress ’imself and pretend not to ’ear his wife when she asked ’im where he was going.
It was a dark, nasty sort o’ night, blowing and raining, and, o’ course, everybody ’ad gone to bed long since. The fust cottage Joe came to was Bill Jones’s, and, knowing Bill’s temper, he stood for some time afore he could make up ’is mind to knock; but at last he up with ’is stick and banged away at the door.
A minute arterward he ’eard the bedroom winder pushed open, and then Bill Jones popped his ’ead out and called to know wot was the matter and who it was.
“It’s me—Joe Barlcomb,” ses Joe, “and I want to speak to you very partikler.”
“Well, speak away,” ses Bill. “You go into the back room,” he ses, turning to his wife.
“Whaffor?” ses Mrs. Jones.