drawed fust becos nobody else would, and all the thanks I get for it is
to be called a thief."

He went off down the road, and by and by Bill Chambers, wot 'ad been
sitting staring straight in front of 'im, got up and went to the door,
and stood looking arter 'im like a man in a dream. None of 'em seemed to
be able to believe that the lottery could be all over so soon, and Bob
Pretty going off with it, and when they did make up their minds to it, it
was one o' the most miserable sights you ever see. The idea that they
'ad been paying a pint a week for Bob Pretty for months nearly sent some
of 'em out of their minds.

"It can't be 'elped," ses Mr. Smith. "He 'ad the pluck to draw fust, and
he won; anybody else might ha' done it. He gave you the offer, George
Kettle, and you, too, Henery Walker."

Henery Walker was too low-spirited to answer 'im; and arter Smith 'ad
said "Hush!" to George Kettle three times, he up and put 'im outside for
the sake of the 'ouse.

When 'e came back it was all quiet and everybody was staring their
'ardest at little Dicky Weed, the tailor, who was sitting with his head
in his 'ands, thinking, and every now and then taking them away and
looking up at the ceiling, or else leaning forward with a start and
looking as if 'e saw something crawling on the wall.

"Wot's the matter with you?" ses Mr. Smith.

Dicky Weed didn't answer 'im. He shut his eyes tight and then 'e jumps
up all of a sudden. "I've got it!" he says. "Where's that bag?"