somebody else 'ave a turn. The only one that didn't flinch was Bob
Pretty, the biggest poacher and the greatest rascal in Claybury. He'd
been making fun o' the tricks all along, saying out loud that he'd seen
'em all afore--and done better.

"Go on," he ses; "I ain't afraid of you; you can't shoot straight."

The conjurer pointed the pistol at 'im. Then 'e pulled the trigger and
the pistol went off bang, and the same moment o' time Bob Pretty jumped
up with a 'orrible scream, and holding his 'ands over 'is eyes danced
about as though he'd gone mad.

Everybody started up at once and got round 'im, and asked 'im wot was the
matter; but Bob didn't answer 'em. He kept on making a dreadful noise,
and at last 'e broke out of the room and, holding 'is 'andkercher to 'is
face, ran off 'ome as 'ard as he could run.

"You've done it now, mate," ses Bill Chambers to the conjurer. "I
thought you wouldn't be satisfied till you'd done some 'arm. You've been
and blinded pore Bob Pretty."

"Nonsense," ses the conjurer. "He's frightened, that's all."

"Frightened!" ses Peter Gubbins. "Why, you fired Dicky Weed's watch
straight into 'is face."

"Rubbish," ses the conjurer; "it dropped into 'is pocket, and he'll find
it there when 'e comes to 'is senses."

"Do you mean to tell me that Bob Pretty 'as gone off with my watch in 'is