“About the idea that I shot you all,” ses Bob.  “I want my character cleared.  O’ course, they can’t prove anything against me—­I’ve got my witnesses.  But, taking one thing with another, I see now that it does look suspicious, and I don’t suppose any of you’ll get any more of your money.  Mr. Sutton is so sick o’ being laughed at, he’ll jump at anything.”

“You dursn’t do it, Bob,” ses Peter, all of a tremble.

“It ain’t me, Peter, old pal,” ses Bob, “it’s my friend.  But I don’t mind stopping ’im for the sake of old times if I get my arf.  He’d listen to me, I feel sure.”

At fust Peter said he wouldn’t get a farthing out of ’im if his friend wrote letters till Dooms-day; but by-and-by he thought better of it, and asked Bob to stay there while he went down to see Sam and Walter about it.  When ’e came back he’d got the fust week’s money for Bob Pretty; but he said he left Walter Bell carrying on like a madman, and, as for Sam Jones, he was that upset ’e didn’t believe he’d last out the night.