"We 'aven't thought of 'er.

We ain't thought nothing of either of you." "Ain't you been 'ome to-day ?" asked Fulcher over a tankard.
"If one of those brasted birds 'ave pecked 'er," began Mr.Witherspoons and left the full horror to their unaided imaginations....
It appeared to the meeting at the time that it would be an interesting end to an eventful day to go on with Skinner and see if anything _had_ happened to Mrs.Skinner.One never knows what luck one may have when accidents are at large.

But Skinner, standing at the bar and drinking his hot gin and water, with one eye roving over the things at the back of the bar and the other fixed on the Absolute, missed the psychological moment.
"I thuppothe there 'athen't been any trouble with any of thethe big waptheth to-day anywhere ?" he asked, with an elaborate detachment of manner.
"Been too busy with your 'ens," said Fulcher.
"I thuppothe they've all gone in now anyhow," said Skinner.
"What--the 'ens ?" "I wath thinking of the waptheth more particularly," said Skinner.
And then, with, an air of circumspection that would have awakened suspicion in a week-old baby, and laying the accent heavily on most of the words he chose, he asked, "I _thuppothe nobody_ 'athn't '_eard_ of any other _big_ thingth, about, 'ave they?
Big _dogth_ or _catth_ or anything of _that_ thort?
Theemth to me if thereth big henth and big waptheth comin' on--" He laughed with a fine pretence of talking idly.
But a brooding expression came upon the faces of the Hickleybrow men.
Fulcher was the first to give their condensing thought the concrete shape of words.
"A cat to match them 'ens--" said Fulcher.
"Ay!" said Witherspoon, "a cat to match they 'ens." "'Twould be a tiger," said Fulcher.
"More'n a tiger," said Witherspoon....
When at last Skinner followed the lonely footpath over the swelling field that separated Hickleybrow from the sombre pine-shaded hollow in whose black shadows the gigantic canary-creeper grappled silently with the Experimental Farm, he followed it alone.
He was distinctly seen to rise against the sky-line, against the warm clear immensity of the northern sky--for so far public interest followed him--and to descend again into the night, into an obscurity from which it would seem he will nevermore emerge.

He passed--into a mystery.

No one knows to this day what happened to him after he crossed the brow.
When later on the two Fulchers and Witherspoon, moved by their own imaginations, came up the hill and stared after him, the flight had swallowed him up altogether.
The three men stood close.