“‘Yes,’ ses John Biggs.

“’Then ‘urry up, for the sake of mercy,’ ses old Mr. Parsley, putting ’is ’and on the table and going off into a fit of coughing; ’it’s just gone into Bob Pretty’s cottage.  I was passing and saw it.’

“George Kettle snatches up ’is gun and shouts out to ’is men to come along.  Some of ’em was for ’anging back at first, some because they didn’t like the tiger and some because they didn’t like Bob Pretty, but John Biggs drove ’em in front of ‘im like a flock o’ sheep and then they gave a cheer and ran after George Kettle, full pelt up the road.

“A few wimmen and children was at their doors as they passed, but they took fright and went indoors screaming.  There was a lamp in Bob Pretty’s front room, but the door was closed and the ’ouse was silent as the grave.

“George Kettle and the men with the guns went first, then came the pitchforks, and last of all the scythes.  Just as George Kettle put ’is ’and on the door he ’eard something moving inside, and the next moment the door opened and there stood Bob Pretty.

“‘What the dickens!’ ’e ses, starting back as ’e see the guns and pitchforks pointing at ’im.

“‘’Ave you killed it, Bob?’ ses George Kettle.

“’Killed wot?’ ses Bob Pretty.  ‘Be careful o’ them guns.  Take your fingers off the triggers.’

“’The tiger’s in your ‘ouse, Bob,’ ses George Kettle, in a whisper.  ‘’Ave you on’y just come in?’

“’Look ‘ere,’ ses Bob Pretty.  ‘I don’t want any o’ your games.  You go and play ’em somewhere else.’

“‘It ain’t a game,’ ses John Biggs; ’the tiger’s in your ’ouse and we’re going to kill it.  Now, then, lads.’

“They all went in in a ’eap, pushing Bob Pretty in front of ’em, till the room was full.  Only one man with a scythe got in, and they wouldn’t ’ave let ’im in if they’d known.  It a’most made ’em forget the tiger for the time.

“George Kettle opened the door wot led into the kitchen, and then ’e sprang back with such a shout that the man with the scythe tried to escape, taking Henery Walker along with ’im.  George Kettle tried to speak, but couldn’t.  All ’e could do was to point with ’is finger at Bob Pretty’s kitchen—­and Bob Pretty’s kitchen was for all the world like a pork-butcher’s shop.  There was joints o’ pork ’anging from the ceiling, two brine tubs as full as they could be, and quite a string of fowls and ducks all ready for market.

“’Wot d’ye mean by coming into my ‘ouse?’ ses Bob Pretty, blustering.  ‘If you don’t clear out pretty quick, I’ll make you.’

“Nobody answered ’im; they was all examining ‘ands o’ pork and fowls and such-like.

“‘There’s the tiger,’ ses Henery Walker, pointing at Bob Pretty; ’that’s wot old man Parsley meant.’

“‘Somebody go and fetch Policeman White,’ ses a voice.

“‘I wish they would,’ ses Bob Pretty.  “I’ll ’ave the law on you all for breaking into my ‘ouse like this, see if I don’t.’