"I s'pose they flew into your pocket?" ses Police-man White.

"No, they didn't," ses Bob. "I'm not going to tell any lies about it;
I put 'em there. The partridges in my inside coat-pocket and the bill in
my waistcoat-pocket."

"The bill?" ses Keeper Lewis, staring at 'im.

"Yes, the bill," ses Bob Pretty, staring back at 'im; "the bill from Mr.
Keen, the poulterer, at Wick-ham."

He fetched it out of 'is pocket and showed it to Mr. White, and the
keepers was like madmen a'most 'cos it was plain to see that Bob Pretty
'ad been and bought them partridges just for to play a game on 'em.

"I was curious to know wot they tasted like," he ses to the policeman.
"Worst of it is, I don't s'pose my pore wife'll know 'ow to cook 'em."

"You get off 'ome," ses Policeman White, staring at 'im.

"But ain't I goin' to be locked up?" ses Bob. "'Ave I been brought all
this way just to 'ave a little chat with a policeman I don't like."

"You go 'ome," ses Policeman White, handing the partridges back to 'im.

"All right," ses Bob, "and I may 'ave to call you to witness that these
'ere two men laid hold o' me and tried to steal my partridges. I shall
go up and see my loryer about it."