Bob Pretty tried to laugh. "Becos I thought it was the poachers arter me," he ses. "It seems ridikilous, don't it?"
"Yes, it does," ses Lewis.
"I thought you'd know me a mile off," ses Mr. Cutts. "I should ha' thought the smell o' roses would ha' told you I was near."
Bob Pretty scratched 'is 'ead and looked at 'im out of the corner of 'is eye, but he 'adn't got any answer. Then 'e sat biting his finger-nails and thinking while the keepers stood argyfying as to who should take 'is clothes off and go into the pond arter the pheasants. It was a very cold night and the pond was pretty deep in places, and none of 'em seemed anxious.
"Make 'im go in for it," ses Lewis, looking at Bob; "'e chucked it in."
"On'y Becos I thought you was poachers," ses Bob. "I'm sorry to 'ave caused so much trouble."
"Well, you go in and get it out," ses Lewis, who pretty well guessed who'd 'ave to do it if Bob didn't. "It'll look better for you, too."
"I've got my defence all right," ses Bob Pretty. "I ain't set a foot on the squire's preserves, and I found this sack a 'undred yards away from it."
"Don't waste more time," ses Mr. Cutts to Lewis.
"Off with your clothes and in with you. Anybody'd think you was afraid of a little cold water."