The Persecution of Bob Pretty Page #2

"The Persecution of Bob Pretty" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous tale set in the early 20th century, revolving around the misadventures of a hapless protagonist named Bob Pretty. In this lighthearted narrative, Jacobs deftly portrays the struggles and absurdities Bob faces as he becomes the target of various misunderstandings and misfortunes, leading to a series of comedic events. The story captures Jacobs' signature wit and charm, offering readers an entertaining glimpse into the mischief and trials that come with everyday life. With its engaging characters and clever storytelling, the book is a delightful exploration of human nature and the quirks of fate.

• Humour
• Short story

								


“I shall ’ave ’em afore long,” ses Mr. Cutts, nodding his ’ead.

“Your good ’ealth,” ses Bob Pretty, holding up ’is mug. “We’ve been
wanting a man like you for a long time.”

“I don’t want any of your impidence, my man,” ses the keeper. “I’ve
’eard about you, and nothing good either. You be careful.”

“I am careful,” ses Bob, winking at the others. “I ’ope you’ll catch
all them low poaching chaps; they give the place a bad name, and I’m
a’most afraid to go out arter dark for fear of meeting ’em.”

Peter Gubbins and Sam Jones began to laugh, but Bob Pretty got angry
with ’em and said he didn’t see there was anything to laugh at. He said
that poaching was a disgrace to their native place, and instead o’
laughing they ought to be thankful to Mr. Cutts for coming to do away
with it all.

“Any help I can give you shall be given cheerful,” he ses to the
keeper.

“When I want your help I’ll ask you for it,” ses Mr. Cutts.

“Thankee,” ses Bob Pretty. “I on’y ’ope I sha’n’t get my face knocked
about like yours ’as been, that’s all; ’cos my wife’s so partikler.”

“Wot d’ye mean?” ses Mr. Cutts, turning on him. “My face ain’t been
knocked about.”

“Oh, I beg your pardin,” ses Bob; “I didn’t know it was natural.”

Mr. Cutts went black in the face a’most and stared at Bob Pretty as if
’e was going to eat ’im, and Bob stared back, looking fust at the
keeper’s nose and then at ’is eyes and mouth, and then at ’is nose
agin.

“You’ll know me agin, I s’pose?” ses Mr. Cutts, at last.

“Yes,” ses Bob, smiling; “I should know you a mile off—on the darkest
night.”

“We shall see,” ses Mr. Cutts, taking up ’is beer and turning ’is back
on him. “Those of us as live the longest’ll see the most.”

“I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see ’im,” ses Bob to Bill Chambers.
“I feel more satisfied with myself now.”

Bill Chambers coughed, and Mr. Cutts, arter finishing ’is beer, took
another look at Bob Pretty, and went off boiling a’most.

The trouble he took to catch Bob Pretty arter that you wouldn’t
believe, and all the time the game seemed to be simply melting away,
and Squire Rockett was finding fault with ’im all day long. He was worn
to a shadder a’most with watching, and Bob Pretty seemed to be more
prosperous than ever.

Sometimes Mr. Cutts watched in the plantations, and sometimes ’e hid
’imself near Bob’s house, and at last one night, when ’e was crouching
behind the fence of Frederick Scott’s front garden, ’e saw Bob Pretty
come out of ’is house and, arter a careful look round, walk up the
road. He held ’is breath as Bob passed ’im, and was just getting up to
foller ’im when Bob stopped and walked slowly back agin, sniffing.

“Wot a delicious smell o’ roses!” he ses, out loud.

He stood in the middle o’ the road nearly opposite where the keeper was
hiding, and sniffed so that you could ha’ ’eard him the other end o’
the village.

“It can’t be roses,” he ses, in a puzzled voice, “becos there ain’t no
roses hereabouts, and, besides, it’s late for ’em. It must be Mr.
Cutts, the clever new keeper.”

He put his ’ead over the fence and bid ’im good evening, and said wot a
fine night for a stroll it was, and asked ’im whether ’e was waiting
for Frederick Scott’s aunt. Mr. 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.
Keeper Lewis got rheumatic fever, which ’e put down to sitting about
night arter night in damp places watching for Bob, and, while ’e was in
the thick of it, with the doctor going every day, Mr. Cutts fell in
getting over a fence and broke ’is leg. Then all the work fell on
Keeper Smith, and to ’ear ’im talk you’d think that rheumatic fever and
broken legs was better than anything else in the world. He asked the
squire for ’elp, but the squire wouldn’t give it to ’im, and he kept
telling ’im wot a feather in ’is cap it would be if ’e did wot the
other two couldn’t do, and caught Bob Pretty. It was all very well,
but, as Smith said, wot ’e wanted was feathers in ’is piller, instead
of ’aving to snatch a bit o’ sleep in ’is chair or sitting down with
his ’ead agin a tree. When I tell you that ’e fell asleep in this
public-’ouse one night while the landlord was drawing a pint o’ beer he
’ad ordered, you’ll know wot ’e suffered.

O’ course, all this suited Bob Pretty as well as could be, and ’e was
that good-tempered ’e’d got a nice word for everybody, and when Bill
Chambers told ’im ’e was foolhardy ’e only laughed and said ’e knew wot
’e was about.

But the very next night ’e had reason to remember Bill Chambers’s
words. He was walking along Farmer Hall’s field—the one next to the
squire’s plantation—and, so far from being nervous, ’e was actually
a-whistling. He’d got a sack over ’is shoulder, loaded as full as it
could be, and ’e ’ad just stopped to light ’is pipe when three men
burst out o’ the plantation and ran toward ’im as ’ard as they could
run.

Bob Pretty just gave one look and then ’e dropped ’is pipe and set off
like a hare. It was no good dropping the sack, because Smith, the
keeper, ’ad recognised ’im and called ’im by name, so ’e just put ’is
teeth together and did the best he could, and there’s no doubt that if
it ’adn’t ha’ been for the sack ’e could ’ave got clear away.

As it was, ’e ran for pretty near a mile, and they could ’ear ’im
breathing like a pair o’ bellows; but at last ’e saw that the game was
up. He just managed to struggle as far as Farmer Pinnock’s pond, and
then, waving the sack round his ’ead, ’e flung it into the middle of
it, and fell down gasping for breath.

“Got—you—this time—Bob Pretty,” ses one o’ the men, as they came up.

“Wot—Mr. Cutts?” ses Bob, with a start.

“That’s me, my man,” ses the keeper.

“Why—I thought—you was. Is that Mr. Lewis? It can’t be.”

“That’s me,” ses Keeper Lewis. “We both got well sudden-like, Bob
Pretty, when we ’eard you was out. You ain’t so sharp as you thought
you was.”

Bob Pretty sat still, getting ’is breath back and doing a bit o’
thinking at the same time.

“You give me a start,” he ses, at last. “I thought you was both in bed,
and, knowing ’ow hard worked Mr. Smith ’as been, I just came round to
’elp ’im keep watch like. I promised to ’elp you, Mr. Cutts, if you
remember.”

“Wot was that you threw in the pond just now?” ses Mr. Cutts.

“A sack,” ses Bob Pretty; “a sack I found in Farmer Hall’s field. It
felt to me as though it might ’ave birds in it, so I picked it up, and
I was just on my way to your ’ouse with it, Mr. Cutts, when you started
arter me.”

“Ah!” ses the keeper, “and wot did you run for?”

Bob Pretty tried to laugh. “Becos I thought it was the poachers arter
me,” he ses. “It seems ridikilous, don’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” ses Lewis.

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes