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“There’s plenty more where that came from,” he ses, pulling out a handful o’ money.

Peter Gubbins looked at it, ‘ardly able to speak. “It’s worth while being shot to ‘ave all that money,” he ses, at last.

“Don’t you worry yourself, Peter,” ses Bob Pretty; “there’s plenty more of you as’ll be shot afore them gentlemen at the Hall ‘as finished. Bill’s the fust, but ‘e won’t be the last–not by a long chalk.”

“They’re more careful now,” ses Dicky Weed, the tailor.

“All right; ‘ave it your own way,” ses Bob, nasty-like. “I don’t know much about shooting, being on’y a pore labourin’ man. All I know is I shouldn’t like to go beating for them. I’m too fond o’ my wife and family.”

“There won’t be no more shot,” ses Sam Jones.

“We’re too careful,” ses Peter Gubbins.

“Bob Pretty don’t know everything,” ses Dicky Weed.

“I’ll bet you what you like there’ll be some more of you shot,” ses Bob Pretty, in a temper. “Now, then.”

“‘Ow much’ll you bet, Bob,” ses Sam Jones, with a wink at the others. “I can see you winking, Sam Jones,” ses Bob Pretty, “but I’ll do more than bet. The last bet I won is still owing to me. Now, look ‘ere; I’ll pay you sixpence a week all the time you’re beating if you promise to give me arf of wot you get if you’re shot. I can’t say fairer than that.”

“Will you give me sixpence a week, too?” ses Henery Walker, jumping up.

“I will,” ses Bob; “and anybody else that likes. And wot’s more, I’ll pay in advance. Fust sixpences now.”

Claybury men ‘ave never been backward when there’s been money to be made easy, and they all wanted to join Bob Pretty’s club, as he called it. But fust of all ‘e asked for a pen and ink, and then he got Smith, the land-lord, being a scholard, to write out a paper for them to sign. Henery Walker was the fust to write ‘is name, and then Sam Jones, Peter Gubbins, Ralph Thomson, Jem Hall, and Walter Bell wrote theirs. Bob stopped ’em then, and said six ‘ud be enough to go on with; and then ‘e paid up the sixpences and wished ’em luck.

Wot they liked a’most as well as the sixpences was the idea o’ getting the better o’ Bob Pretty. As I said afore, he was a poacher, and that artful that up to that time nobody ‘ad ever got the better of ‘im.

They made so much fun of ‘im the next night that Bob turned sulky and went off ‘ome, and for two or three nights he ‘ardly showed his face; and the next shoot they ‘ad he went off to Wickham and nobody saw ‘im all day.

That very day Henery Walker was shot. Several gentlemen fired at a rabbit that was started, and the next thing they knew Henery Walker was lying on the ground calling out that ‘is leg ‘ad been shot off.

He made more fuss than Bill Chambers a’most, ‘specially when they dropped ‘im off a hurdle carrying him ‘ome, and the things he said to Dr. Green for rubbing his ‘ands as he came into the bedroom was disgraceful.

The fust Bob Pretty ‘eard of it was up at the Cauliflower at eight o’clock that evening, and he set down ‘is beer and set off to see Henery as fast as ‘is legs could carry ‘im. Henery was asleep when ‘e got there, and, do all he could, Bob Pretty couldn’t wake ‘im till he sat down gentle on ‘is bad leg.

“It’s on’y me, old pal,” he ses, smiling at ‘im as Henery woke up and shouted at ‘im to get up.

Henery Walker was going to say something bad, but ‘e thought better of it, and he lay there arf busting with rage, and watching Bob out of the corner of one eye.

“I quite forgot you was on my club till Smith reminded me of it,” ses Bob. “Don’t you take a farthing less than ten pounds, Henery.”