Bob Pretty shook his 'ead. "No; that won't do," he ses. "S'pose I did 'ave the luck to find that pore animal, you'd say I'd had it all the time and refuse to pay."
"I swear I wouldn't, Bob," ses George Barstow, jumping up.
"Best thing you can do if you want me to try and find that cat," says Bob Pretty, "is to give me the fifteen pounds now, and I'll go and look for it at once. I can't trust you, George Barstow."
"And I can't trust you," ses George Barstow.
"Very good," ses Bob, getting up; "there's no 'arm done. P'r'aps Joe Clark 'll find the cat is dead and p'r'aps you'll find it's alive. It's all one to me."
George Barstow walked off 'ome, but he was in such a state o' mind 'e didn't know wot to do. Bob Pretty turning up 'is nose at fifteen pounds like that made 'im think that Joe Clark 'ad promised to pay 'im more if the cat was dead; and at last, arter worrying about it for a couple o' hours, 'e came up to this 'ere Cauliflower and offered Bob the fifteen pounds.
"Wot's this for?" ses Bob.
"For finding my cat," ses George.
"Look here," ses Bob, handing it back, "I've 'ad enough o' your insults; I don't know where your cat is."
"I mean for trying to find it, Bob," ses George Barstow.