"Took a fancy to me, I s'pose," ses Bob. "People do sometimes. There's something about me at times that makes 'em like me."
"He gave 'em to you to kill my cat," ses George Barstow. "It's plain enough for any-body to see."
Bob Pretty smiled. "I expect it'll turn up safe and sound one o' these days," he ses, "and then you'll come round and beg my pardon. P'r'aps—"
"P'r'aps wot?" ses George Barstow, arter waiting a bit.
"P'r'aps somebody 'as got it and is keeping it till you've drawed the fifteen pounds out o' the bank," ses Bob, looking at 'im very hard.
"I've taken it out o' the bank," ses George, starting; "if that cat's alive, Bob, and you've got it, there's the fifteen pounds the moment you 'and it over."
"Wot d'ye mean—me got it?" ses Bob Pretty. "You be careful o' my character."
"I mean if you know where it is," ses George Barstow trembling all over.
"I don't say I couldn't find it, if that's wot you mean," ses Bob. "I can gin'rally find things when I want to."
"You find me that cat, alive and well, and the money's yours, Bob," ses George, 'ardly able to speak, now that 'e fancied the cat was still alive.