"Wot bag?" ses Mr. Smith, staring at 'im. "The bag with the papers in,"
ses Dicky.

"Where Bob Pretty ought to be," ses Bill Chambers. "On the fire."

"Wot?" screams Dicky Weed. "Now you've been and spoilt everything!"

"Speak English," ses Bill.

"I will!" ses Dicky, trembling all over with temper. "Who asked you to
put it on the fire? Who asked you to put yourself forward? I see it all
now, and it's too late."

"Wot's too late?" ses Sam Tones.

"When Bob Pretty put his 'and in that bag," ses Dicky Weed, holding up
'is finger and looking at them, "he'd got a bit o' paper already in it--a
bit o' paper with the figger I on it. That's 'ow he done it. While we
was all watching Mr. Smith, he was getting 'is own bit o' paper ready."

He 'ad to say it three times afore they understood 'im, and then they
went down on their knees and burnt their fingers picking up bits o' paper
that 'ad fallen in the fireplace. They found six pieces in all, but not
one with the number they was looking for on it, and then they all got up
and said wot ought to be done to Bob Pretty.

"You can't do anything," ses Smith, the landlord. "You can't prove it.
After all, it's only Dicky's idea."