'e sat there, with 'is face
pale, staring at the pieces of 'is watch on the conjurer's table. Then
the conjurer took a big pistol with a trumpet-shaped barrel out of 'is
box, and arter putting in a charge o' powder picked up the pieces o'
watch and rammed them in arter it. We could hear the broken bits grating
agin the ramrod, and arter he 'ad loaded it 'e walked round and handed it
to us to look at.

"It's all right," he ses to Dicky Weed; "it's going to be a success; I
could tell in the loading."

He walked back to the other end of the room and held up the pistol.

"I shall now fire this pistol," 'e ses, "and in so doing mend the watch.
The explosion of the powder makes the bits o' glass join together agin;
in flying through the air the wheels go round and round collecting all
the other parts, and the watch as good as new and ticking away its
'ardest will be found in the coat-pocket o' the gentleman I shoot at."

He pointed the pistol fust at one and then at another, as if 'e couldn't
make up 'is mind, and none of 'em seemed to 'ave much liking for it.
Peter Gubbins told 'im not to shoot at 'im because he 'ad a 'ole in his
pocket, and Bill Chambers, when it pointed at 'im, up and told 'im to let
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 t