Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 17, 2025
And there's pretty near a dozen of you as'll 'ave to go in the box and swear as you saw the tiger. Now, can I sell any of you a bit o' pork afore you go? It's delicious eating, and as soon as you taste it you'll know it wasn't grown in Claybury. Or a pair o' ducks wot 'ave come from two 'undered miles off, and yet look as fresh as if they was on'y killed last night.
The on'y man as I ever heard of that made his fortune by emigrating was Henery Walker's great-uncle, Josiah Walker by name, and he wasn't a Claybury man at all. He made his fortune out o' sheep in Australey, and he was so rich and well-to-do that he could never find time to answer the letters that Henery Walker used to send him when he was hard up.
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 conjurer; "I can't." "Well, I'm not going to 'ave my watch lost through want of trying," ses John Biggs. "Tie 'im to the chair, mates." "All right, then," ses the conjurer, very pale.
"Sometimes a little gets left in them," he explained, meeting the stranger's inquiring glance. The latter started, and, knocking on the table with the handle of his knife, explained that he had been informed by a man outside that his companion was the bitterest teetotaller in Claybury. "That's one o' Bob Pretty's larks," said the old man, flushing.
He wouldn't eat another mossel, but sat hunting 'igh and low for the other 'arf. "He 'adn't been in Claybury more than a week afore he said 'ow surprised 'e was to see 'ow pore dumb animals was treated.
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 conjurer; "I can't." "Well, I'm not going to 'ave my watch lost through want of trying," ses John Biggs. "Tie 'im to the chair, mates." "All right, then," ses the conjurer, very pale.
Next time you see Bob Pretty ask 'im wot happened to the prize hamper. He's done a good many things has Bob, but it'll be a long time afore Claybury men'll look over that. It was Henery Walker's idea.
Bob Pretty 'is name is, and of all the sly, artful, deceiving men that ever lived in Claybury 'e is the worst never did a honest day's work in 'is life and never wanted the price of a glass of ale. Bob Pretty's worst time was just after old Squire Brown died.
Most of us thought Henery Walker's fortune was as good as made, but Bob Pretty, a nasty, low poaching chap that has done wot he could to give Claybury a bad name, turned up his nose at it. "I'll believe he's coming 'ome when I see him," he ses. "It's my belief he went to Australey to get out o' your way, Henery." "As it 'appened he went there afore I was born," ses Henery Walker, firing up.
He got up again restlessly, and, walking round the table, gazed long and hard into three or four mugs. "Sometimes a little gets left in them," he explained, meeting the stranger's inquiring glance. The latter started, and, knocking on the table with the handle of his knife, explained that he had been informed by a man outside that his companion was the bitterest teetotaller in Claybury.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking