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Updated: June 17, 2025
"I never knew 'im to lose anything yet." "You don't know everything, Bill," ses Bob, shaking his 'ead. "You don't know me; else you wouldn't talk like that. I've never been caught doing wrong yet, and I 'ope I never shall." "It's all right, Bill," ses George Kettle. "Mr. Smith'll see fair, and I'd sooner win Bob Pretty's money than anybody's."
She silently assented, and with her stool at arm's length, and the pail against her knee, went round to where they stood. Soon the sound of Old Pretty's milk fizzing into the pail came through the hedge, and then Angel felt inclined to go round the corner also, to finish off a hard-yielding milcher who had strayed there, he being now as capable of this as the dairyman himself.
Bunnett agreed with 'im, and said wot a pity it was everybody 'adn't got Bob Pretty's commonsense and good feeling. "'It ain't that, ses Bob, shaking his 'ead at him; 'it ain't to my credit. I dessay if Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins, and Charlie Stubbs and Dicky Weed 'ad been brought up the same as I was they'd 'ave been a lot better than wot I am. "He bid Mr.
"George Kettle opened the door wot led into the kitchen, and then 'e sprang back with such a shout that the man with the scythe tried to escape, taking Henery Walker along with 'im. George Kettle tried to speak, but couldn't. All 'e could do was to point with 'is finger at Bob Pretty's kitchen and Bob Pretty's kitchen was for all the world like a pork-butcher's shop.
That was the last time the word "Australey" passed Henery Walker's lips, and even when 'e saw his great-uncle writing letters there he didn't say anything. And the old man was so suspicious of Mrs. Walker's curiosity that all the letters that was wrote to 'im he 'ad sent to Bob Pretty's. He used to call there pretty near every morning to see whether any 'ad come for 'im.
"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.
Pretty's back when he, in pursuit of his duty, must crawl on all fours under the counter; his clinging to his legs when duty again called him to mount the steps for the topmost shelf. Nothing was too absurd, no tiny record too trivial to be precious in the mother's ears. A source of furtive interest to her were the movements of Willy Spratt, the cutler's son.
Cutts didn't answer 'im a word; 'e was pretty near bursting with passion. He got up and shook 'is fist in Bob Pretty's face, and then 'e went off stamping down the road as if 'e was going mad. And for a time Bob Pretty seemed to 'ave all the luck on 'is side.
What I sez is, give me a fool man like my Rust, who's no more sense than to beat hot iron, an' keep out o' my way when I've a big wash doin'." "That's so," agreed Pretty. "An' if I'm any judge, that's just 'bout how pore Eve feels." "Pore?" sniggered Jane. "Yes, 'pore." Pretty's manner assumed its most pronounced austerity. "That gal ain't what she was, an' an' I can't get the rights of it.
I've outwitted the master devil himself, and now I will have you all to myself, to deal with in a way that will cut to the quick when Dyke Darrel hears of it." Nell had on only a light summer robe under the shawl. She looked very innocent and beautiful as she lay there under the gaze of that human hyena. "Pretty's a picture," hissed the wicked Madge.
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