Biggs," ses Bob Pretty; "if 'e won't do it, I will. If
it can be done, I don't s'pose it matters who does it. I don't think
anybody could smash up a watch better than that."

John Biggs looked at it, and then 'e asked the conjurer once more to do
the trick, but 'e wouldn't.

"It can't be done now," he ses; "and I warn you that if that pistol is
fired I won't be responsible for what'll 'appen."

"George Kettle shall load the pistol and fire it if 'e won't," ses Bob
Pretty. "'Aving been in the Militia, there couldn't be a better man for
the job."

George Kettle walked up to the table as red as fire at being praised like
that afore people and started loading the pistol. He seemed to be more
awkward about it than the conjurer 'ad been the last time, and he 'ad to
roll the watch-cases up with the flat-iron afore 'e could get 'em in.
But 'e loaded it at last and stood waiting.

"Don't shoot at me, George Kettle," ses Bob. "I've been called a thief
once, and I don't want to be agin."

"Put that pistol down, you fool, afore you do mischief," ses the
conjurer.

"Who shall I shoot at?" ses George Kettle, raising the pistol.

"Better fire at the conjurer, I think," ses Bob Pretty; "and if things
'appen as he says they will 'appen, the watch ought to be found in 'is
coat-pocket."

"Where is he?" ses George, looking round.

Bill Chambers laid 'old of 'im just as he was going through the door to
fetch the landlord, and the scream 'e gave as he came back and George
Kettle pointed the pistol at 'im was awful.

[Illustration: "The scream 'e gave as George Kettle pointed the pistol at
'im was awful."]

"It's no worse for you than it was for me," ses Bob.

"Put it down," screams the conjurer; "put it down. You'll kill 'arf the
men in the room if it goes off."

"Be careful where you aim, George," ses Sam Jones. "P'r'aps he'd better
'ave a chair all by hisself in the middle of the room."

It was all very well for Sam Jones to talk, but the conjurer wouldn't sit
on a chair by 'imself. He wouldn't sit on it at all. He seemed to be
all legs and arms, and the way 'e struggled it took four or five men to
'old 'im.

"Why don't you keep still?" ses John Biggs. "George Kettle'll shoot it
in your pocket all right. He's the best shot in Claybury."

"Help! Murder!" says the conjurer, struggling. "He'll kill me. Nobody
can do the trick but me."

"But you say you won't do it," ses John Biggs. "Not now," ses the