“Took a fancy to me, I s’pose,” ses Bob.  “People do sometimes.  There’s something about me at times that makes ’em like me.”

“He gave ’em to you to kill my cat,” ses George Barstow.  “It’s plain enough for any-body to see.”

Bob Pretty smiled.  “I expect it’ll turn up safe and sound one o’ these days,” he ses, “and then you’ll come round and beg my pardon.  P’r’aps—­”

“P’r’aps wot?” ses George Barstow, arter waiting a bit.

“P’r’aps somebody ’as got it and is keeping it till you’ve drawed the fifteen pounds out o’ the bank,” ses Bob, looking at ’im very hard.

“I’ve taken it out o’ the bank,” ses George, starting; “if that cat’s alive, Bob, and you’ve got it, there’s the fifteen pounds the moment you ’and it over.”

“Wot d’ye mean—­me got it?” ses Bob Pretty.  “You be careful o’ my character.”

“I mean if you know where it is,” ses George Barstow trembling all over.

“I don’t say I couldn’t find it, if that’s wot you mean,” ses Bob.  “I can gin’rally find things when I want to.”

“You find me that cat, alive and well, and the money’s yours, Bob,” ses George, ’ardly able to speak, now that ’e fancied the cat was still alive.

Bob Pretty shook his ’ead.  “No; that won’t do,” he ses.  “S’pose I did ’ave the luck to find that pore animal, you’d say I’d had it all the time and refuse to pay.”

“I swear I wouldn’t, Bob,” ses George Barstow, jumping up.

“Best thing you can do if you want me to try and find that cat,” says Bob Pretty, “is to give me the fifteen pounds now, and I’ll go and look for it at once.  I can’t trust you, George Barstow.”

“And I can’t trust you,” ses George Barstow.

“Very good,” ses Bob, getting up; “there’s no ’arm done.  P’r’aps Joe Clark ’ll find the cat is dead and p’r’aps you’ll find it’s alive.  It’s all one to me.”

George Barstow walked off ‘ome, but he was in such a state o’ mind ’e didn’t know wot to do.  Bob Pretty turning up ’is nose at fifteen pounds like that made ’im think that Joe Clark ’ad promised to pay ’im more if the cat was dead; and at last, arter worrying about it for a couple o’ hours, ’e came up to this ’ere Cauliflower and offered Bob the fifteen pounds.

“Wot’s this for?” ses Bob.

“For finding my cat,” ses George.

“Look here,” ses Bob, handing it back, “I’ve ‘ad enough o’ your insults; I don’t know where your cat is.”

“I mean for trying to find it, Bob,” ses George Barstow.

“Oh, well, I don’t mind that,” ses Bob, taking it.  “I’m a ’ard-working man, and I’ve got to be paid for my time; it’s on’y fair to my wife and children.  I’ll start now.”

He finished up ’is beer, and while the other chaps was telling George Barstow wot a fool he was Joe Clark slipped out arter Bob Pretty and began to call ’im all the names he could think of.

“Don’t you worry,” ses Bob; “the cat ain’t found yet.”