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our mother?”

      “There, sir!” said I. “She lies there.”

      “Oh!” said he. “And is your father with your mother?”

      “Yes, sir,” said I.

      “Ha!” he muttered then. “Who do you live with?[3]”

      “My sister, sir – Mrs. Joe Gargery – wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir.”

      “Blacksmith?” said he.

      Then he looked down at his leg.

      “Do you know what a file is?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “So bring me a file and some food. Or I’ll eat your heart and liver.”

      I was dreadfully frightened. He continued:

      “Listen. Bring me, tomorrow morning, the file and the food. You will do it, and you will tell nobody about me. So you will live. If you do not do this, my friend will take your heart and liver out. You may lock your door, your may lie in bed, you may draw the clothes over your head, but that man will softly creep and creep his way to you and catch you. Now, what do you say?”

      “I will bring you the file and some food. I will come to you early in the morning,” I answered.

      “Now,” he said, “you remember what you promise, and you remember that man. Go home!”

      “Good night, sir,” I faltered and ran away.

      Chapter 2

      My sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I. She was not a good-looking woman. I think that she made Joe marry her[4].

      Joe Gargery was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth face, and with blue eyes. He was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow. And he was very strong.

      My sister was tall and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron. It was fastened over her figure behind with two loops.

      Joe’s forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house. When I ran home from the churchyard, the forge was shut up. Joe was sitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I were fellow-sufferers[5]. I raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him.

      “Mrs. Joe is looking for you, Pip. And she’s out now.”

      “Is she? How long, Joe?”

      “Well,” said Joe, “about five minutes, Pip. She’s coming! Get behind the door, old chap[6].”

      I took the advice. My sister came in.

      “Where did you go, you young monkey?” asked she.

      “I went to the churchyard,” said I.

      I was crying and rubbing myself.

      “Churchyard!” repeated my sister. “Churchyard, indeed! You’ll drive me to the churchyard, one of these days!”

      My sister set the tea-things. She cut some bread and butter for us. But, though I was hungry, I dared not eat my slice. I was afraid of my dreadful acquaintance, and his ally, the more dreadful man.

      It was Christmas Eve. My sister told me to stir the pudding for next day, with a copper-stick, from seven to eight. I decided to steal some food afterwards and bring it to my new “friend”. Suddenly I heard shots.

      “Hark!” said I; “is it a gun, Joe?”

      “Ah!” said Joe. “A convict ran away.”

      “What does that mean, Joe?” said I.

      Mrs. Joe said, snappishly, “Escaped.”

      I asked Joe, “What’s a convict?”

      “A criminal. That convict ran away last night,” said Joe, aloud, “after sunset. And they fired. They are warning of him. And now it appears they’re firing again because they are warning of another.”

      “Who’s firing?” said I.

      “Ask no silly questions,” interposed my sister, “what a questioner he is!”

      It was not very polite, I thought. But she never was polite unless there was company.

      “Mrs. Joe,” said I, “please tell me, where is the firing coming from?[7]”

      “Lord bless the boy![8]” exclaimed my sister. “From the Hulks!”

      “Oh-h!” said I, looking at Joe. “Hulks!”

      “And please, what’s Hulks?” said I.

      “Hulks are prison-ships[9]!” exclaimed my sister.

      She pointed me out with her needle and thread, and shook her head at me,

      “Answer him one question, and he’ll ask you a dozen directly!”

      It was too much for Mrs. Joe. She immediately rose.

      “I tell you, young fellow,” said she, “people are in the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob, and forge, and do all sorts of bad things. And they always begin by asking questions[10]. Now, you go to bed!”

      She never allowed me to light a candle, and I went upstairs in the dark. Hulks! I was clearly on my way there. I began to asking questions, and I was going to rob Mrs. Joe.

      But I was in mortal terror of the man who wanted my heart and liver. I was in mortal terror of my interlocutor with the iron leg. I was in mortal terror of myself, too.

      In the early morning I got up and went downstairs. Every board upon the way, and every crack in every board were calling after me, “Stop thief!” and “Get up, Mrs. Joe!” I stole some bread, some cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat, some brandy from a bottle, a meat bone and a beautiful round compact pork pie.

      There was a door in the kitchen. It communicated with the forge. I unlocked and unbolted that door, and took a file from among Joe’s tools. Then I opened the door at which I had entered when I ran home last night. I shut it, and ran away.

      Chapter 3

      It was a rimy morning, and very damp. The mist was heavier yet when I got out upon the marshes. Everything seemed to look at me. The gates and dikes and banks cried, “A boy with somebody’s else’s pork pie! Stop him!” The cattle came upon me. They were staring out of their eyes, and steaming out of their nostrils, “Halloa, young thief!”

      All this time, I was getting on towards the river. I crossed a ditch, and scrambled up the mound beyond the ditch. Then I saw the man. He was sitting before me. His back was towards me. His arms were folded, he was nodding forward, heavy with sleep.

      I went forward softly and touched him on the shoulder. He instantly jumped up. It was not the same man, but another man!

      And yet this man was dressed in coarse gray, too, and had a great iron on his leg. All this I saw in a moment. I had only a moment to see it in. He ran into the mist, and I lost him.

      Soon I saw the right Man, who was waiting for me. He was awfully cold. His eyes looked so awfully hungry too.

      “What’s in the bottle, boy?” said he.

      “Brandy,” said I. “I think you have got the ague,” said I.

      “Sure, boy,” said he.

      “It’s bad about here,” I told him. “You’re lying out on the meshes, and they’re dreadful aguish. Rheumatic too.”

      “You’re not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you?”

      “No, sir! No!”

      “Well,” said he, “I believe you.”

      Something clicked in his throat. He smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes.

      “I am glad you enjoy the food,” said I

      “What?”

      “I

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