That was on’y common sense; but, as John Biggs said, it did seem ’ard to think as ’ow Bob Pretty should be allowed to get off scot-free, and with Henery Walker’s five pounds too.  “There’s one thing,” he ses to Bob; “you won’t ’ave any of these other pore chaps money; and, if they’re men, they ought to make it up to Henery Walker for the money he ’as saved ’em by finding you out.”

“They’ve got to pay me fust,” ses Bob.  “I’m a pore man, but I’ll stick up for my rights.  As for me shooting ’em, they’d ha’ been ’urt a good deal more if I’d done it—­especially Mr. Henery Walker.  Why, they’re hardly ’urt at all.”

“Don’t answer ’im, Henery,” ses John Biggs.  “You save your breath to go and tell Sam Jones and the others about it.  It’ll cheer ’em up.”

“And tell ’em about my arf, in case they get too cheerful and go overdoing it,” ses Bob Pretty, stopping at the door.  “Good-night all.”

Nobody answered ’im; and arter waiting a little bit Henery Walker set off to see Sam Jones and the others.  John Biggs was quite right about its making ’em cheerful, but they see as plain as Bob ’imself that it ’ad got to be kept quiet.  “Till we’ve spent the money, at any rate,” ses Walter Bell; “then p’r’aps Mr. Sutton might get Bob locked up for it.”

Mr. Sutton went down to see ’em all a day or two afterwards.  The shooting-party was broken up and gone ’ome, but they left some money behind ’em.  Ten pounds each they was to ’ave, same as the others, but Mr. Sutton said that he ’ad heard ’ow the other money was wasted at the Cauliflower, and ’e was going to give it out to ’em ten shillings a week until the money was gorn.  He ’ad to say it over and over agin afore they understood ’im, and Walter Bell ’ad to stuff the bedclo’es in ’is mouth to keep civil.

Peter Gubbins, with ’is arm tied up in a sling, was the fust one to turn up at the Cauliflower, and he was that down-’arted about it we couldn’t do nothing with ’im.  He ’ad expected to be able to pull out ten golden sovereigns, and the disapp’intment was too much for ’im.

“I wonder ’ow they heard about it,” ses Dicky Weed.

“I can tell you,” ses Bob Pretty, wot ’ad been sitting up in a corner by himself, nodding and smiling at Peter, wot wouldn’t look at ’im.  “A friend o’ mine at Wickham wrote to him about it.  He was so disgusted at the way Bill Chambers and Henery Walker come up ’ere wasting their ’ard-earned money, that he sent ’im a letter, signed ’A Friend of the Working Man,’ telling ’im about it and advising ’im what to do.”

“A friend o’ yours?” ses John Biggs, staring at ’im.  “What for?”

“I don’t know,” ses Bob; “he’s a wunnerful good scholard, and he likes writin’ letters.  He’s going to write another to-morrer, unless I go over and stop ’im.”

“Another?” ses Peter, who ‘ad been tellin’ everybody that ’e wouldn’t speak to ’im agin as long as he lived.  “Wot about?”