“’Strewth, it is heavy,” he ses, getting it up on his back.  “Well, so long, mates.”

“Ain’t you—­ain’t you going to stand us a drink out o’ one o’ them bottles?” ses Peter Gubbins, as Bob got to the door.

Bob Pretty went out as if he didn’t ’ear; then he stopped, sudden-like, and turned round and put his ’ead in at the door agin, and stood looking at ’em.

“No, mates,” he ses, at last, “and I wonder at you for asking, arter what you’ve all said about me.  I’m a pore man, but I’ve got my feelings.  I drawed fust becos nobody else would, and all the thanks I get for it is to be called a thief.”

He went off down the road, and by and by Bill Chambers, wot ’ad been sitting staring straight in front of ’im, got up and went to the door, and stood looking arter ’im like a man in a dream.  None of ’em seemed to be able to believe that the lottery could be all over so soon, and Bob Pretty going off with it, and when they did make up their minds to it, it was one o’ the most miserable sights you ever see.  The idea that they ’ad been paying a pint a week for Bob Pretty for months nearly sent some of ’em out of their minds.

“It can’t be ’elped,” ses Mr. Smith.  “He ’ad the pluck to draw fust, and he won; anybody else might ha’ done it.  He gave you the offer, George Kettle, and you, too, Henery Walker.”

Henery Walker was too low-spirited to answer ’im; and arter Smith ’ad said “Hush!” to George Kettle three times, he up and put ’im outside for the sake of the ’ouse.

When ’e came back it was all quiet and everybody was staring their ’ardest at little Dicky Weed, the tailor, who was sitting with his head in his ’ands, thinking, and every now and then taking them away and looking up at the ceiling, or else leaning forward with a start and looking as if ’e saw something crawling on the wall.

“Wot’s the matter with you?” ses Mr. Smith.

Dicky Weed didn’t answer ’im.  He shut his eyes tight and then ’e jumps up all of a sudden.  “I’ve got it!” he says.  “Where’s that bag?”

“Wot bag?” ses Mr. Smith, staring at ’im.  “The bag with the papers in,” ses Dicky.

“Where Bob Pretty ought to be,” ses Bill Chambers.  “On the fire.”

“Wot?” screams Dicky Weed.  “Now you’ve been and spoilt everything!”

“Speak English,” ses Bill.

“I will!” ses Dicky, trembling all over with temper.  “Who asked you to put it on the fire?  Who asked you to put yourself forward?  I see it all now, and it’s too late.”

“Wot’s too late?” ses Sam Tones.

“When Bob Pretty put his ’and in that bag,” ses Dicky Weed, holding up ‘is finger and looking at them, “he’d got a bit o’ paper already in it—­a bit o’ paper with the figger I on it.  That’s ’ow he done it.  While we was all watching Mr. Smith, he was getting ‘is own bit o’ paper ready.”

He ’ad to say it three times afore they understood ’im, and then they went down on their knees and burnt their fingers picking up bits o’ paper that ’ad fallen in the fireplace.  They found six pieces in all, but not one with the number they was looking for on it, and then they all got up and said wot ought to be done to Bob Pretty.