Bill ’ad intended to lay up for another week, and the doctor, wot ’ad been calling twice a day, said he wouldn’t be responsible for ’is life if he didn’t; but the ten pounds was too much for ’im, and one evening, just a week arter the accident, he turned up at this Cauliflower public-’ouse and began to spend ’is money.

His face was bandaged up, and when ’e come in he walked feeble-like and spoke in a faint sort o’ voice.  Smith, the landlord, got ’im a easy-chair and a couple of pillers out o’ the parlour, and Bill sat there like a king, telling us all his sufferings and wot it felt like to be shot.

I always have said wot a good thing beer is, and it done Bill more good than doctor’s medicine.  When he came in he could ’ardly crawl, and at nine o’clock ’e was out of the easy-chair and dancing on the table as well as possible.  He smashed three mugs and upset about two pints o’ beer, but he just put his ’and in his pocket and paid for ’em without a word.

“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.