CHAPTER VII At the time when I stood in the churchyard reading the family toon stones, I had just enough learning to be able to spell them out. My construction, even of their simple meaning, was not very correct, for I read Wife of the Above as a complementary reference to my father's exaltation to a better world, and if any one of my deceased relatives had been referred to as below, I have no doubt I should have formed the worst opinions of that member of the family. Neither were my notions of the theological positions to which my catechism bound me at all accurate, for I have a lively remembrance that I supposed my declaration that I was to walk in the same all the days of my life laid me under an obligation always to go through the village from our house in one particular direction and never to vary it by turning down by the wheel-rights or up by the mill. When I was old enough I was to be apprenticed to Joe, and until I could assume that dignity I was not to be what Mrs. Joe called pompied, or as I render it, pampered. Therefore, I was not only odd boy about the forge, but if any neighbor happened to want an extra boy to frighten birds, or pick up stones, or do any such job, I was favored with the employment. In order, however, that our superior position might not be compromised thereby, a money-box was kept on the kitchen mantel shelf, into which it was publicly made known that all my earnings were dropped. I have an impression that they were to be contributed eventually towards the liquidation of the national debt, but I know I had no hope of any personal participation in the treasure. Mr. Wopsle's great-at kept an evening school in the village, that is to say, she was a ridiculous old woman of limited means and unlimited infirmity, who used to go to sleep from six to seven every evening in the society of youth who paid two pence per week each, for the improving opportunity of seeing her do it. She rented a small cottage, and Mr. Wopsle had the room upstairs, where we students used to overhear him reading aloud in a most dignified and terrific manner, and occasionally bumping on the ceiling. There was a fiction that Mr. Wopsle examined the scholars once a quarter. What he did on those occasions was to turn up his cuffs, stick up his hair, and give us Mark Antony's oration over the body of Caesar. This was always followed by Collins' ode on the passions, where I particularly venerated Mr. Wopsle as revenge throwing his blood-stained sword in thunder down, and taking the ward denouncing trumpet with a withering look. It was not with me then, as it was in later life, when I fell into the society of the passions and compared them with Collins and Wopsle, rather to the disadvantage of both gentlemen. Mr. Wopsle's great-ant, besides keeping this educational institution, kept in the same room a little general shop. She had no idea what stock she had, or what the price of anything in it was, but there was a little greasy memorandum book kept in a drawer which served as a catalog of prices, and by this oracle Biddy arranged all the shop transaction. Biddy was Mr. Wopsle's great-ant's granddaughter. I confess myself quiet, unequal to the working out of the problem what relation she was to Mr. Wopsle.  She was most noticeable, I thought, in respect of her extremities, for her hair always wanted brushing, her hands always wanted washing, and her shoes always wanted mending in pulling up at heel. This description must be received with a weekday limitation. On Sundays she went to church, elaborated. Much of my unassisted self, and more by the help of Biddy than of Mr. Wopsle's great-ant, I struggled through the alphabet as if it had been a bramble-bush, getting considerably worried and scratched by every letter. After that I fell among those thieves, the nine figures, who seemed every evening to do something new to disguise themselves and baffle recognition. But at last I began, in a purblind, groping way, to read, write, and cipher on the very smallest scale. One night I was sitting in the chimney corner with my slate, expending great efforts on the production of a letter to jail. I think it must have been a full year after our hunt upon the marshes, for it was a long time after, and it was winter and a hard frost. With an alphabet on the hearth at my feet for reference, I contrived in an hour or two to print and smear this epistle, which is spelled very badly. My dear Joe, I hope you are care-white well, I hope I shall son be hable, for to teach you, Joe, and then we sure'll be so glad, and when I'm print-ist to you, Joe, what larks and, believe me, infix and pip. There was no indispensable necessity for my communicating with Joe by letter, in as much as he sat beside me, and we were alone. But I delivered this written communication, slate and all, with my own hand, and Joe received it as a miracle of erudition. I say, Pip-old chap! cried Joe, opening his blue eyes wide.  Ain'tcha? I should like to be, said I, glancing at the slate as he held it, with a misgiving that the writing was rather hilly. Why, here's a J, said Joe, and an O equal to anything. Here's a J and an O, Pip, and a J-O, Joe. I had never heard Joe read aloud to any greater extent than this monosyllable, and I had observed at church last Sunday, when I accidentally held our prayer-book upside down, that it seemed to suit his convenience quite as well as if it had been all right. Wishing to embrace the present occasion of finding out whether in teaching Joe I should have to begin quite at the beginning, I said, Ha! but read the rest, Joe. The rest, eh, Pip? said Joe, looking at it with a slow, searching eye. One, two, three. Why, here's three Js and three Os, and three J-O, Joe's in it, Pip. I leaned over Joe, and with the aid of my forefinger read him the whole letter. Astonishing, said Joe, when I had finished.  How do you spell gargery, Joe? I asked him with the modest patronage. I don't spell it at all, said Joe. But supposing you did? It can't be supposed, said Joe, though I'm uncommon fond of reading, too. Are you, Joe? Uncommon. Give me, said Joe, a good book or a good newspaper and sit me down for a good fire, and I asked no better, Lord, he continued after rubbing his knees a little. When you do come to a J and an O, and says you, here at last is a J-O, Joe, how interesting reading is! I derived from this that Joe's education, like steam, was yet in its infancy. Pursuing the subject I inquired, didn't you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me? No, Pip. Why didn't you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me? Well, Pip, said Joe, taking up the poker, and settling himself to his usual occupation when he was thoughtful, of slowly raking the fire between the lower bars. I'll tell you. My father, Pip, he was given to drink, and when he was overtook with drink he hammered away at my mother, most unmerciful. It was almost the only hammering he did, indeed, excepted at myself. And he hammered at me with a vigor, only to be equal by the vigor with which he didn't hammer at his anvil. You're listening and understanding, Pip? Yes, Joe. Consequence. My mother and me, we ran away from my father several times, and then my mother, she'd go out to work, and she'd say, Joe, she'd say, now, please, God, you shall have some schooling, child, and she'd put me to school. But my father were that good in his heart, that he couldn't bear to be without us. So he'd come with the most tremendous crowd, and make such a row at the doors of the houses where we was, that they used to be obligated to have no more to do with us, and to give us up to him. And then he took us home and hammered us. Which, you see, Pip, said Joe, pausing in his meditative raking of the fire, and looking at me, were a drawback on my learning. Certainly, poor Joe, though mind you, Pip, said Joe, with a judicial touch or two of the poker on the top bar, rendering under all their due, and maintaining equal justice, Twix man and man, my father were that good in his heart, don't you see? I didn't see, but I didn't say so. Well, Joe pursued, somebody must keep the pot of boiling, Pip, or the pot won't boil, don't you know? I saw that, and I said so. Consequence, my father didn't make objections to my going to work, so I went to work, to work at my present calling, which were his, too, if he would have followed it, and I worked tolerable hard, I assure you, Pip, in time I were able to keep him, and I kept him till he went off in a purple-uptic fit. And in it were my intention to have had put upon his tombstone that, whatsoever the failings on his part, remember, reader, he were that good in his heart. Joe recited this couplet with such manifest pride and careful perspicuity that I asked him if he had made it himself. I made it, said Joe, my own self. I made it in a moment. It was like striking out a horseshoe complete in a single blow. I never was so much surprised in all my life, couldn't credit my own Ed, to tell you the truth, hardly believed it were my own Ed. As I was saying, Pip, it were my intention to have had it cut over him, but poetry cost money. Cut it how you will, small or large, and it were not done. Not to mention bearers, all the money that could be spared were wanted for my mother. She were in poor health, and quite broke. She weren't long a following, poor soul, and her share of peace come round at last. Joe's blue eyes turned a little watery. He rubbed first one of them and then the other in a most uncongenial and uncomfortable manner with a round knob on the top of the poker. It were but lonesome, then, said Joe. Living here alone, I got acquainted with your sister. Now, Pip, Joe looked firmly at me as if he knew I was not going to agree with him. Your sister is a fine figure of a woman. I could not help looking at the fire in an obvious state of doubt. Whatever family opinions, or whatever the world's opinions on that subject may be, Pip, your sister is, Joe tapped the top bar where the poker, after every word following, a fine figure of a woman. I could think of nothing better to say than, I'm glad you think so, Joe. So am I, returned Joe, catching me up. I am glad I think so, Pip. A little redness or little matter of bone here or there, what does it signify to me? I sagaciously observed if it didn't signify to him, to whom did it signify? Certainly, ascended Joe, that's it, your right old chap. When I got acquainted with your sister, it were the talk how she was bringing you up by hand. Very kind of her, too, all the folks said. And I said, along with all the folks, as to you, Joe pursued, with a countenance expressive of seeing, something very nasty indeed, if you could have been aware how small and flabby and mean you was, dear me, you'd have formed the most contemptible opinion of yourself. Not exactly relishing this, I said. Never mind me, Joe. But I did mind you, Pip. He returned with tender simplicity. When I offered to your sister to keep company, and to be asked in church at such times as she was willing and ready to come to the forge, I said to her, and bring the poor little child.  I said to your sister, there's room for him at the forge. I broke out crying and baking pardon, and hugged Joe round the neck, who dropped the poker to hug me, and to say, Never the best of friends, ain't us, Pip. Don't cry, old chap. When this little interruption was over, Joe resumed, Well, yes, see, Pip, and here we are. That's about where it lights. Here we are. Now, when you take me in hand in my learning, Pip, and I tell you beforehand, I am awful dull, most awful dull. Because Joe mustn't see too much of what we are up to. It must be done, as I may say, on the sly. And why on the sly? I'll tell you why, Pip. He had taken up the poker again, without which I doubt if he could have proceeded in his demonstration. Your sister is given to government. Given to government, Joe? I was startled, for I had some shadowy idea, and I'm afraid I must add, hope, that Joe had divorced her in a favor of the lords of the Admiralty, or Treasury. Given to government, said Joe, what I mean to say, the government of you and myself. Oh! And she ain't over-partial to heaven's scholars on the premises, Joe continued, and in particular would not be over-partial to my being a scholar for fear as I might rise. Like a sort of rubble, don't you see? I was going to retort with an inquiry, and had got as far as, why, when Joe stopped me? Stay a bit. I know what you're going to say, Pip. Stay a bit. I don't deny that your sister comes the mogul over us now and again. I don't deny that she do throw us backfalls, and that she do drop down upon us heavy. At such times is when your sister is on the rampage, Pip. Joe sank his voice to a whisperer and glanced at the door. Candor compels for to admit that she is a buster. Joe pronounced this word as if it began with at least twelve capital Bs. Why don't I rise? That were your observation when I broke it off, Pip? Yes, Joe? Well, said Joe, passing the poker into his left hand, that he might feel his whisker, and I had no hope of him whenever he took to that placid occupation. Your sister is a master-mind! A master-mind! What's that? I asked in some hope of bringing him to a stand, but Joe was readier with his definition than I had expected, and completely stopped me by arguing circularly and answering with a fixed look. Her! And I ain't a master-mind! Joe resumed when he had unfixed his look and got back to his whisker.   And I'd furr rather of the two go wrong that the other way, and be a little ill-convenience myself. I wish it was only me that got put out, Pip. I wish there weren't no tickler for you, old chap. I wish I could take it all on myself, but this is the up-and-down-and-straight-on-it, Pip, and I hope you'll overlook shortcomings. Young as I was, I believed that I dated a new admiration of Joe from that night. We were equals afterwards, as we had been before, but afterwards at quiet times when I sat looking at Joe and thinking about him, I had a new sensation of feeling conscious that I was looking up to Joe in my heart. "'However,' said Joe, rising to replenish the fire, "'here's the Dutch clock, a working himself up to be an equal to strike eight of them, as she's not come home yet. I hope Uncle Pumplechook's mare, man'd have had set a four-foot on a piece of ice and gone down.' Mrs. Joe made occasional trips with Uncle Pumplechook on market days, to assist him in buying such household stuff and goods as required a woman's judgment, Uncle Pumplechook being a bachelor and reposing no confidence in his domestic servant. This was market day, and Mrs. Joe was out on one of these expeditions. Joe made the fire and swept the hearth, and then we went to the door to listen for the Shezkart. It was a dry, cold night, and the wind blew keenly, and the frost was white and hard.  Then I looked at the stars and considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the glittering multitude. Here comes the mare, said Joe, ringing like a peal of bells. The sound of her iron shoes upon the hard road was quite musical, as she came along at a much brisker trot than usual. We got a chair out, ready for Mrs. Joe's alighting, and stirred up the fire that they might see a bright window, and took a final survey of the kitchen that nothing might be out of its place. When we had completed these preparations, they drove up, wrapped to the eyes. Mrs. Joe was soon landed, and Uncle Palmbiltchook was soon down too, covering the mare with a cloth, and we were soon all in the kitchen, carrying so much cold air in with us that it seemed to drive all the heat out of the fire. Now, said Mrs. Joe, unwrapping herself with haste and excitement, and throwing her bonnet back on her shoulders where it hung by the strings, if this boy ain't grateful this night, he never will be. I looked as grateful as any boy possibly could, who was wholly uninformed why he ought to assume that expression. It's only to be hoped, said my sister, that he won't be poppied, but I have my fears. She ain't in that line, Mom, said Mr. Palmbiltchook. She knows better. She. I looked at Joe, making the motion with my lips and eyebrows. She. Joe looked at me, and making the motion with his lips and eyebrows. She. My sister catching him in the act. He drew the back of his hand across his nose with his usual conciliatory air on such occasions, and looked at her. Well, said my sister, in her snappish way, what are you staring at? Is the house the fire? Which some individual, Joe politely hinted, mentioned, she. And she is a she, I suppose, said my sister, unless you call Ms. Havisham a he, and I doubt if even you'll go so far as that. Ms. Havisham uptown, said Joe, is there any Ms. Havisham downtown? Returned my sister. She wants this boy to go and play there. And of course he's going, and he a better play there, said my sister, shaking her head at me as an encouragement to be extremely light and sportive. Or I'll work him. I had heard of Ms. Havisham uptown. Everybody for miles round had heard of Ms. Havisham uptown, as an immensely rich and grim lady who lived in a large and dismal house, barricaded against robbers, and who led a life of seclusion. Well, to be sure, said Joe astounded, I wonder how she came to know Pip. Noodle, cried my sister, who said she knew him. Which some individual, Joe again politely hinted, mentioned that she wanted him to go and play there. And couldn't she ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? Isn't it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook may be attentive of hers, and that he may sometimes, we won't say quarterly or half yearly, for that would be requiring too much of you, but sometimes go there to pay his rent? And couldn't she then ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? And couldn't Uncle Pumblechook, being always considerate and thoughtful for us, though you may not think it, Joseph, in a tone of the deepest reproach, as if he were the most callous of nephews, then mention this boy, standing, prancing here, which I solemnly declare I was not doing, that I have for ever been a willing slave to? Good again!" cried Uncle Pumblechook. Well put! Prithely pointed. Good indeed! Now, Joseph, you know the case.  You do not yet, though you may not think it, know the case. You may consider that you do, but you do not, Joseph. For you do not know that Uncle Pumblechook, being sensible that for anything we can tell, this boy's fortune may be made by his going to Miss Havishams, has offered to take him into town to-night in his own shez-cart, and to keep him to-night, and to take him with his own hands to Miss Havishams tomorrow morning. And Laura must see me, cried my sister, casting off her bonnet in sudden desperation. Here I stand, talking to mere moon-cafs, with Uncle Pumblechook waiting, and the mare catching cold at the door, and the boy grime'd with crock and dirt from the hair of his head to the sole of his foot. With that she pounced upon me, like an eagle on a lamb, and my face was squeezed into wooden bowls and sinks, and my head was put under taps of water-butts, and I was soaked and kneaded and towel'd and thump'd and harrow'd and wrast'd, until I really was quite beside myself. I may hear remark that I suppose myself to be better acquainted than any living authority with the riggy effect of a wedding-ring passing unsympathetically over the human countenance. When my ablutions were completed, I was put into clean linen of the stiffest character, like a young penitent into sackcloth, and was truss'd up in my tightest and fearfulest suit. I was then delivered over to Mr. Pumblechook, who formerly received me as if he were the sheriff, and who let off upon me the speech that I knew he had been dying to make all along.  Good-bye, Joe.  I had never parted from him before, and what with my feelings and what with soap-suds I could at first see no stars from the shazkart, but they twinkled out one by one without throwing any light on the questions, why on earth I was going to play at Miss Havishams, and what on earth I was expected to play at. CHAPTER VIII This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. GREAT EXPECTATIONS by Charles Dickens. CHAPTER VIII. Mr. Pumblechook's premises in the high street of the market town were of a peppercorny and perinaceous character, as the premises of a corn chandler and seedsman should be. It appeared to me that he must be a very happy man, indeed, to have so many little drawers in his shop, and I wondered when I peeped into one or two on the lower tiers, and saw the tied-up brown paper packets inside, whether the flower seeds and bulbs ever wanted of a fine day to break out of those jails and bloom. It was in the early morning after my arrival that I entertained the speculation. On the previous night I had been sent straight to bed in an attic with a sloping roof, which was so low in the corner where the bedstead was that I calculated the tiles as being within a foot of my eyebrows. In the same early morning I discovered a singular affinity between seeds and corduroys. Mr. Pumblechook wore corduroys, and so did his shopman, and somehow there was a general air and flavor about the corduroys, so much in the nature of seeds, and a general air and flavor about the seeds, so much in the nature of corduroys, that I hardly knew which was which. The same opportunities served me for noticing that Mr. Pumblechook appeared to conduct his business by looking across the street at the Saddler, who appeared to transact his business by keeping an eye on the coachmaker, who appeared to get on in life by putting his hands in his pockets and contemplating the baker, who in his turn folded his arms and stared at the grocer, who stood at his door and yawned at the chemist.  Mr. Pumblechook and I breakfasted at eight o'clock in the parlor behind the shop, while the shopman took his mug of tea and hunk of bread and butter on a sack of peas in the front premises. I considered Mr. Pumblechook wretched company. Besides being possessed by my sister's idea that a mortifying and penitential character ought to be imparted to my diet, besides giving me as much crumb as possible in combination with his little butter, and putting such a quantity of warm water into my milk that would have been more candid to have left the milk out altogether, his conversation consisted of nothing but arithmetic. While my politely bidding him good morning, he said pompously, Seven times nine, boy! And how should I be able to answer dodged in that way in a strange place on an empty stomach? I was hungry, but before I had swallowed a morsel he began a running sum that lasted all through the breakfast. Seven, and four, and eight, and six, and two, and ten, and so on. And after each figure was disposed of it was as much as I could do to get a bite or a sup before the next came, while he sat at his ease guessing nothing and eating bacon and hot-roll in, if I may be allowed the expression, a gorging and gormandizing manner. For such reasons I was very glad when ten o'clock came and we started for Miss Havishams, though I was not at all at my ease regarding the manner in which I should acquit myself under that lady's roof. Within a quarter of an hour we came to Miss Havishams' house, which was of old brick and dismal, and had a great many iron bars to it. Some of the windows had been walled up, of those that remained all the lower were rustily barred. There was a courtyard in front and that was barred, so we had to wait after ringing the bell until someone should come to open it. While we waited at the gate I peeped in. Even then Mr. Pummelchuk said, I'm fourteen, but I pretended not to hear him, and saw that at the side of the house there was a large brewery. No brewing was going on in it, and none seemed to have gone on for a long, long time. A window was raised, and a clear voice demanded, What name? To which my conductor replied, Pummelchuk. The voice returned, Quite right!  This, said Mr. Pummelchuk, is Pip. This is Pip, is it? Returned the young lady, who was very pretty and seemed very proud. Come in, Pip. Mr. Pummelchuk was coming in also when she stopped him with the gate. Oh, she said, did you wish to see Miss Havisham? If Miss Havisham wished to see me, returned Mr. Pummelchuk, discomfited. Ah, said the girl, but you see she don't. She said it so finally, and in such an undiscussable way, that Mr. Pummelchuk, so in a condition of ruffled dignity, could not protest.  I was not free from apprehension that he would come back to propound through the gate and sixteen, but he didn't. My young conductress locked the gate, and we went across the courtyard. It was paved and clean, but grass was growing in every crevice. The brewery buildings had a little lane of communication with it, and the wooden gates of that lane stood open, and all the brewery beyond stood open, away to the high and closing wall, and all was empty and disused. The cold wind seemed to blow colder there than outside the gate, and it made a shrill noise in howling in and out at the open sides of the brewery, like the noise of wind and the rigging of a ship at sea. She saw me looking at it, and she said, You could drink without hurt all the strong beer that's brewed there now, Boy. I should think I could miss, said I, in a shy way. Better not try to brew beer there now, or it would turn out sour, Boy. Don't you think so? It looks like it misses. Not that anybody means to try, she added, for that's all done with, and the place will stand as idle as it is till it falls. As to strong beer there's enough of it in the cellars already to drown the manor house. Is that the name of this house, Miss? One of its names, Boy. It has more than one, then, Miss? One more. Its other name was Satis, which is Greek, or Latin, or Hebrew, or all three, or all one, to me, for enough. Enough house, said I. That's a curious name, Miss. Yes, she replied, but it meant more than it said. It meant, when it was given, that whoever had this house could want nothing else. They must have been easily satisfied in those days, I should think. But don't loiter, Boy. Though she called me Boy so often, and with a carelessness that was far from complimentary, she was of about my own age. She seemed much older than I, of course, being a girl, and beautiful and self-possessed, and she was as scornful of me as if she had been one in twenty, and a queen. We went into the house by a side door. The great front entrance had two chains across it outside. And the first thing I noticed was that the passages were all dark, and that she had left a candle burning there. She took it up, and we went through more passages, and up a staircase, and still it was all dark, and only the candle lighted us. At last we came to the door of a room, and she said, Go in. I answered, more in shyness than politeness, After you, Miss. To this she returned, Don't be ridiculous, Boy. I am not going in. And scornfully walked away, and, what was worse, took the candle with her. This was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid. However, the only thing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked, and was told from within to enter. I entered, therefore, and found myself in a pretty large room, well lighted with wax candles. No glimpse of daylight was to be seen in it. It was a dressing-room, as I suppose from the furniture, though much of it was of forms and uses then quite unknown to me. But prominent in it was a draped table with a gilded looking-glass, and that I made out at first sight to be a fine lady's dressing-table. Whether I should have made out this object so soon, if there had been no fine lady sitting at it, I cannot say. In an armchair, with an elbow resting on the table, and her head leaning on that hand, sat the strangest lady I have ever seen or shall ever see. She was dressed in rich materials, satins and laces and silks, all of white. Her shoes were white, and she had a long white veil depended from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and some other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses less splendid than the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks were scattered about. She had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on, the other was on the table near her hand. Her veil was but half arranged. Her watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay with those trinkets, and with her handkerchief and gloves and some flowers, and a prayer-book all confusedly heaped about the looking-glass. It was not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though I saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But I saw that everything within my view which ought to be white had been white long ago, and had lost its luster and was faded and yellow. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose had shrunk to skin and bone. Once I had been taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the fair, saying I know not what impossible personage lying in state. Once I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches to see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress that had been dug out of a vault under the church pavement. Now waxwork and skeleton seemed to have dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out if I could. What is it? said the lady at the table. Pip, ma'am. Pip? Mr. Pumblechook's boy, ma'am, come to play. Come nearer. Let me look at you. Come close. It was when I stood before her, avoiding her eyes, that I took note of the surrounding objects in detail, and saw that her watch had stopped at twenty minutes to nine, and that a clock in the room had stopped at twenty minutes to nine. Look at me, said Miss Avisham. You are not afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born? I regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie comprehended in the answer, no. Do you know what I touch here? She said, laying her hands one upon the other on her left side. Yes, ma'am. It made me think of the young man. What do I touch? Your heart? Broken. She uttered the word with an eager look and with strong emphasis, and with a weird smile that had a kind of boast in it. Afterward she kept her hands there for a little while, and slowly took them away as if they were heavy. I am tired, said Miss Avisham. I want diversion, and I have done with men and women. Play! I think it will be conceded by my most disputatious reader that she could hardly have directed an unfortunate boy to do anything in the wide world more difficult to be done under the circumstances. I sometimes have sick fancies.  There, there, with an impatient movement of the fingers of a right hand. Play! Play! Play! For a moment, with the fear of my sisters working me before my eyes, I had a desperate idea of starting round the room in the assumed character of Mr. Pumblechook's Shezcart. But I felt myself so unequal to the performance that I gave it up, and stood looking at Miss Avisham in what I suppose she took for a dogged manner, in as much as she said when we had taken a good look at each other. Are you sullen and obstinate? No, ma'am. I'm very sorry for you. Very sorry I can't play just now. If you complain of me I shall get into trouble with my sister, so I would do it if I could. But it's so new here, and so strange, and so fine, and melancholy. I stopped, fearing I might say too much, or had already said it, and we took another look at each other. Before she spoke again she turned her eyes from me and looked at the dress she wore, and at the dressing-table, and finally at herself in the looking-glass. So new to him, she muttered, so old to me, so strange to him, so familiar to me, so melancholy to both of us. Call Estella! As she was still looking at the reflection of herself I thought she was still talking to herself, and kept quiet. Call Estella! She repeated, flashing a look at me. You can do that. Call Estella! At the door! To stand in the dark in a mysterious passage of an unknown house, bawling Estella to a scornful young lady neither visible nor responsive, and feeling it a dreadful liberty so to roar out her name, was almost as bad as playing to order. But she answered at last, and her light came along the dark passage like a star. Miss Havisham beckoned her to come close, and took a jewel from the table, and tried its effect upon her fair young bosom and against her pretty brown hair. Your own one day, my dear, and you will use it well. Let me see you play cards with this boy. With this boy? Why he is a common laboring boy. I thought I overheard Miss Havisham answer, only it seemed so unlikely. Well, you can break his heart. What do you play, boy? Asked Estella of myself, with the greatest disdain. Nothing but beggar my neighbor, miss. Beggar him, said Miss Havisham to Estella, so we sat down to cards. It was then I began to understand that everything in the room had stopped, like the watch and the clock, a long time ago. I noticed that Miss Havisham put down the jewel exactly on the spot from which she had taken it up. As Estella dealt the cards, I glanced at the dressing-table again, and saw that the shoe upon it, once white, now yellow, had never been worn. I glanced down at the foot from which the shoe was absent, and saw that the silk stocking on it, once white, now yellow, had been trodden, ragged. Without this arrest of everything, this standing still of all the pale decayed objects, not even the withered bridal dress on the collapsed form could have looked so like grave-clothes or the long veil, also like a shroud. So she sat, corpse-like, as we played at cards, the frillings and trimmings on her bridal dress, looking like earthy paper. I knew nothing then of the discoveries that are occasionally made of bodies buried in ancient times, which fall to powder in the moment of being distinctly seen, but I have often thought since that she must have looked as if the admission of the natural light of day would have struck her to dust. "'He calls the knaves Jacks, this boy,' said Estella with disdain, before our first game was out, and what course-hands he has, and what thick boots.' I had never thought of being ashamed of my hands before, but I began to consider them a very indifferent pair. Her contempt for me was so strong that it became infectious and I caught it. She won the game and I dealt.  "'You say nothing of her,' remarked Miss Havisham to me, as she looked on. "'She says many hard things of you, but you say nothing of her. What do you think of her?' "'I don't like to say,' I stammered. "'Tell me in my ear,' said Miss Havisham, bending down. "'Think she is very proud,' I replied in a whisper. "'Anything else?' she is very pretty. "'Anything else?' she is very insulting. She was looking at me, then, with a look of supreme aversion. "'Anything else?' and never see her again, though she is so pretty. "'But I shouldn't like to see her again.' "'You shall go soon,' said Miss Havisham, aloud. "'Play the game out!' Saving for the one weird smile at first, I should have felt almost sure that Miss Havisham's face could not smile. It had dropped into a watchful and brooding expression, most likely when all the things about her had become transfixed, and it looked as if nothing could ever lift it up again. Her chest had dropped so that she stooped, and her voice had dropped so that she spoke low, and with a dead lull upon her altogether she had the appearance of having dropped body and soul within and without under the weight of a crushing blow. I played the game to an end with Estella, and she beggared me. She threw the cards down on the table when she had won them all, as if she despised them for having been one of me. "'When shall I have you here again?' said Miss Havisham. "'Let me think.' I was beginning to remind her that today was Wednesday when she checked me with her former impatient movements of the fingers of her right hand. "'There, there, I know nothing of days of the week. I know nothing of weeks of the year. Come again after six days. You hear?' "'Yes, ma'am.' "'Estella, take him down. Let him have something to eat, and let him roam and look about him while he eats. Go, Pip!' I followed the candle down, as I had followed the candle up, and she stood it in the place where we had found it. Until she opened the side entrance I had fancied, without thinking about it, that it must necessarily be night time. The rush of the daylight quite confounded me, and made me feel as if I had been in the candlelight of the strange room many hours. "'You are to wait here, you boy,' said Estella, and disappeared and closed the door. I took the opportunity of being alone in the courtyard to look at my coarse hands and my common boots. My opinion of those accessories was not favourable. They had never troubled me before, but they troubled me now, as vulgar appendages. I determined to ask Joe why he had ever taught me to call those picture cards jacks, which ought to be called names. I wished Joe had been rather more gentile brought up, and then I should have been so too. She came back with some bread and meat and a little mug of beer. She put the mug down on the stones of the yard, and gave me the bread and meat without looking at me, as insolently as if I were a dog in disgrace. I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry. I cannot hit upon the right name for the smart. God knows what its name was. The tears started to my eyes. The moment they sprang there the girl looked at me with a quick delight in having been the cause of them. This gave me power to keep them back and to look at her. So she gave me a contemptuous toss. But with a sense I thought of having made too sure that I was so wounded, and left me. But when she was gone I looked about me for a place to hide my face in, and got behind one of the gates in the brewery lane, and leaned my sleeve against the wall there, and leaned my forehead on it, and cried. As I cried I kicked the wall and took a hard twist at my hair, so bitter with my feelings, and so sharp was the smart without a name that needed counteraction. My sisters bringing up had made me sensitive. In the little world in which children have their existence whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice. It may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to, but the child is small, and its world is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big bone to Irish hunter. Within myself I had sustained from my babyhood a perpetual conflict with injustice. I had known, from the time when I could speak, that my sister in her capricious and violent coercion was unjust to me. I had cherished a profound conviction that her bringing me up by hand gave her no right to bring me up by jerks. Through all my punishments, disgraces, fasts, and vigils, and other penitential performances I had nursed this assurance, and to my communing so much with it in a solitary and unprotected way I, in great part, refer the fact that I was morally timid and very sensitive. I got rid of my injured feelings for the time by kicking them into the brewery wall and twisting them out of my hair, and then I smoothed my face with my sleeve and came from behind the gate. The bread and meat were acceptable, and the beer was warming and tingling, and I was soon in spirits to look about me. To be sure it was a deserted place, down to the pigeon-house in the brewery-yard, which been blown crooked on its pole by some high wind, and would have made the pigeons think themselves at sea if there had been any pigeons there to be rocked by it. But there were no pigeons in the dove-cott, no horses in the stable, no pigs in the sty, no malt in the store-house, no smells of grains and beer in the copper or the vat. All the uses and scents of the brewery might have evaporated with its last reek of smoke. In a by-yard there was a wilderness of empty casks which had a certain sour remembrance of better days lingering about them, but it was too sour to be accepted as a sample of the beer that was gone. And in this respect I remember those recluses as being like most others. Behind the farthest end of the brewery was a rank-garden with an old wall, not so high but that I could struggle up and hold on long enough to look over it, and see that the rank-garden was the garden of the house, and that it was overgrown with tangled weeds, but that there was a track upon the green and yellow paths as if someone sometimes walked there, and that Estella was walking away from me even then. But she seemed to be everywhere, for when I yielded to the temptation presented by the casks and began to walk on them, I saw her walking on them at the end of the yard of casks. She had her back towards me and held her pretty brown hair spread out in her two hands, and never looked round and passed out of my view directly. So, in the brewery itself, by which I mean the large paved lofty space in which they used to make the beer, and where the brewing utensils still were, when I first went into it, and rather oppressed by its gloom, stood near the door looking about me. I saw her pass among the extinguished fires, and ascend some light-ironed stairs and go out by a gallery high overhead, as if she were going out into the sky. It was in this place, and at this moment, that a strange thing happened to my fancy. I thought it a strange thing then, and I thought it a stranger thing long afterwards. I turned my eyes, a little dimmed by looking up at the frosty light, towards a great wooden beam and a low nook of the building near me on my right hand, and I saw a figure hanging there by the neck, a figure all in yellow-white, with but one shoe to the feet, and it hung so that I could see that the faded trimmings of the dress were like earthy paper, and that the face was mishavishams, with a movement going over the whole countenance as if she were trying to call to me. In the terror of seeing the figure, and in the terror of being certain that it had not been there a moment before, I at first ran from it, and then ran towards it, and my terror was greatest of all when I found no figure there. Nothing less than the frosty light of the cheerful sky, the sight of people passing beyond the bars of the courtyard gate, and the reviving influence of the rest of the bread and meat and beer would have brought me round. Even with those aids I might not have come to myself as soon as I did, but that I saw Estella approaching with the keys to let me out. She would have some fair reason for looking down upon me, I thought, if she saw me frightened, and she would have no fair reason. She gave me a triumphant glance in passing me, as if she rejoiced that my hands were so coarse and my boots were so thick, and she opened the gate and stood holding it. I was passing out without looking at her when she touched me with a taunting hand. Why don't you cry? Because I don't want to. You do, said she. You have been crying till you are half blind, and you are near crying again now. She laughed contemptuously, pushed me out, and locked the gate upon me. I went straight to Mr. Pumblechooks and was immensely relieved to find him not at home. So, leaving word with the shopman on what day I was wanted at Miss Havishams again, I set off on the four-mile walk to our forge, pondering as I went along on all I had seen, and deeply revolving that I was a common laboring boy, that my hands were coarse, that my boots were thick, that I had fallen into a despicable habit of calling knaves jacks, that I was much more ignorant than I had considered myself last night, and generally that I was in a low-lived bad way. CHAPTER IX When I reached home my sister was very curious to know all about Miss Havishams and asked a number of questions, and I soon found myself getting heavily bumped from behind in the nape of the neck and the small of the back, and having my face ignominiously shoved against the kitchen wall, because I did not answer those questions at sufficient length. If a dread of not being understood be hidden in the breasts of other young people to anything like the extent to which it used to be hidden in mine, which I consider probable, as I have no particular reason to suspect myself of having been a monstrosity, it is the key to many reservations. I felt convinced that if I described Miss Havishams as my eyes had seen it I should not be understood. Not only that, but I felt convinced that Miss Havishams too would not be understood, and although she was perfectly incomprehensible to me, I entertained an impression that there would be something coarse and treacherous in my dragging her as she really was, to say nothing of Miss Estella, before the contemplation of Mrs. Joe. Consequently I said as little as I could and had my face shoved against the kitchen wall. The worst of it was that the bullying old pummel-chook preyed upon by a devouring curiosity to be informed of all I had seen and heard came gaping over in his Shev's card at tea-time to have the details divulged to him.  Well, boy! Uncle Pumple-chook began as soon as he was seated in the chair of honour by the fire. How did you get on, uptown? I answered, pretty well, sir, and my sister shook her fist at me. Pretty well, Mr. Pumple-chook repeated, pretty well is no answer. Tell us what you mean by pretty well, boy. White wash on the forehead hardens the brain into a state of obstinacy, perhaps. Anyhow with white wash from the wall on my forehead my obstinacy was adamantine. I reflected for some time, and then answered as if I had discovered a new idea. I mean, pretty well. My sister, with an exclamation of impatience, was going to fly at me. I had no shadow of defence, for Joe was busy in the forge, when Mr. Pumple-chook interposed with, No! Don't lose your temper. Leave this lad to me, ma'am. Leave this lad to me. Mr. Pumple-chook then turned me towards him as if he were going to cut my hair and said, First, to get our thoughts in order, forty-three pence. I calculated the consequence of replying four hundred pound, and finding them against me went as near the answer as I could, which was somewhere about eight pence off. Mr. Pumple-chook then put me through my pence table from twelve pence, make one shilling, to forty pence, make three unforepence, and then triumphantly demanded, as if he had done for me, Now, how much is forty-three pence? To which I replied, after a long interval of reflection. I don't know. And I was so aggravated that I almost doubt if I did know. Mr. Pumple-chook worked his head like a screw to screw it out of me, and said, Is forty-three pence, seven and six pence, three farthings, for instance? Yes, said I, and although my sister instantly boxed my ears it was highly gratifying to me to see that the answer spoiled his joke, and brought him to a dead stop. Boy, what like is Miss Havisham? Mr. Pumple-chook began again when he had recovered, folding his arms tight on his chest and applying the screw. Very tall and dark, I told him. Is she, Uncle? asked my sister. Mr. Pumple-chook winked a scent from which I at once inferred that he had never seen Miss Havisham, for she was nothing of the kind. Good! said Mr. Pumple-chook conceitedly. This is the way to have him. We are beginning to hold our own, I think, Mum. I am sure, Uncle, returned Mrs. Joe. I wish you had him always. You know so well how to deal with him. No, boy! What was she a-doing of when you went in to-day?" asked Mr. Pumple-chook. She was sitting, I answered, in a black velvet coach. Mr. Pumple-chook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another as they well might, and both repeated, in a black velvet coach? Yes, said I. And Mrs. Stella, that's her niece, I think, handed her in cake and wine at the coach window on a gold plate. And we all had cake and wine on gold plates. And I got up behind the coach to eat mine because she told me to. Was anybody else there? asked Mr. Pumple-chook. Four dogs, said I. Large or small? And they fought for veal cutlets out of a silver basket. Mr. Pumple-chook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another again, in utter amazement. I was perfectly frantic, a reckless witness under the torture, and would have told them anything. Where was this coach in the name of gracious? asked my sister. In Miss Havisham's room. They stared again. But there weren't any horses to it. I added this saving-clause in the moment of rejecting four richly comparison courses which I had had wild thoughts of harnessing. Can this be, Uncle? asked Mrs. Joe. What can the boy mean? I'll tell you, Mum, said Mr. Pumple-chook. My opinion is it's a sedan chair. She's flighty, you know. Very flighty. Quite flighty enough to pass her days in a sedan chair. Did you ever see her any, Uncle? asked Mrs. Joe. How could I? he returned, forced to the admission. When I never see her in my life, never clapped eyes upon her. Goodness, Uncle! And yet you have spoken to her? Why, don't you know, said Mr. Pumple-chook, testily, that when I have been there I have been took up to the outside of her door, and the door has stood a jar, and she has spoke to me that way. Don't say you don't know that, Mum. Howsoever the boy went there to play. What did you play at, boy? We played with flags, I said. I begged to observe that I think of myself with amazement when I recalled the lies I told on this occasion. Flags, echoed my sister. Yes, said I. Estella waved a blue flag, and I waved a red one, and Miss Havisham waved one sprinkled all over with little gold stars out at the coach window, and then we all waved our swords and her rod. Swords, repeated my sister, where did you get swords from? Out of a cupboard, said I, and I saw pistols in it, and jam, and pills. And there was no daylight in the room, but it was all lighted up with candles. That's true, Mum, said Mr. Pumblejook, with a grave nod. That's the state of the case for that much I've seen myself. And then they both stared at me, and I, with an obtrusive show of artlessness on my countenance, stared at them, and plated the right leg of my trousers with my right hand. If they had asked me any more questions, I should undoubtedly have betrayed myself, for I was even then on the point of mentioning that there was a balloon in the yard, and should have hazarded the statement, but for my invention being divided between that phenomenon and a bear in the brewery. They were so much occupied, however, in discussing the marvels I had already presented for their consideration that I escaped. The subject still held them when Joe came in from his work to have a cup of tea. To whom my sister, more for the relief of her own mind than for the gratification of his, related my pretended experiences. Now, when I saw Joe open his blue eyes and roll them all round the kitchen in helpless amazement, I was overtaken with penitence, and only as regarded him, not in the least as regarded the other two. Towards Joe and Joe only I considered myself a young monster, while they sat debating what results would come to me for Ms. Havisham's acquaintance in favour. They had no doubt that Ms. Havisham would do something for me. Their doubts related to the form that something would take. My sister stood out for property. Mr. Pumblechick was in favour of a handsome premium for binding me apprentice to some genteel trade, say, the corn and seed trade, for instance. Joe fell into the deepest disgrace with both for offering the bright suggestion that I might only be presented with one of the dogs who had fought for the veal cutlets. If a fool's head can't express better opinions than that, said my sister, and you have got any work to do you had better go and do it. So he went. After Mr. Pumblechick had driven off, and when my sister was washing up, I stole into the forge to Joe and remained by him until he had done for the night. Then I said, Before the fires go out, Joe, I should like to tell you something. Should you, Pip? said Joe, drawing his shooing stool near the forge. Then tell us, what is it, Pip? Joe, said I, taking hold of his rolled-up shirt sleeve and twisting it between my finger and thumb. You remember all that about Ms. Havisham's? Remember, said Joe, I believe you, wonderful. It's a terrible thing, Joe. It ain't true. What are you telling of, Pip? cried Joe, falling back in the greatest amazement. You don't mean to say it's—yes I do—it's lies, Joe. But not all of it. Why, sure you don't mean to say, Pip, that there was no black velvet coach, for I stood shaking my head. But at least there were dogs, Pip? Come, Pip, said Joe, persuasively. If there weren't no veal cutlets, at least there was dogs. No, Joe. A dog, said Joe, a puppy? Come. No, Joe, there was nothing at all of the kind. As I fixed my eyes hopelessly on Joe, Joe contemplated me in dismay. Pip, old chap, this won't do, old fellow. I say, where do you expect to go to? It's terrible, Joe, ain't it? Terrible! cried Joe. Awful! What possessed you? I don't know what possessed me, Joe. I replied, letting his shirt sleeve go, and sitting down in the ashes at his feet, hanging my head. But I wish you hadn't taught me to call knaves at cards, jacks. And I wish my boots weren't so thick nor my hands so coarse. And then I told Joe that I felt very miserable, and that I hadn't been able to explain myself to Mrs. Joe and Pumblechook, who were so rude to me, and that there had been a beautiful young lady at Miss Havishams who was dreadfully proud, and that she had said I was common, and that I knew I was common, and that I wished I was not common, and that the lies had come out of it somehow, though I didn't know how. This was a case of metaphysics, at least as difficult for Joe to deal with as for me. But Joe took the case altogether out of the region of metaphysics, and by that means vanquished it. There's one thing you may be sure of, Pip, said Joe, after some rumination, namely that lies is lies. Howsoever they come, they did not to come, and they come from the father of lies and work round to the same. Don't you tell no more of them, Pip? That ain't the way to get out of being common, old chap. And as to being common, I don't make it out at all clear. You are uncommon in some things. You're uncommon small. Likewise you're an uncommon scholar.  Why, see what a letter you wrote last night. Wrote in print, even. I've seen letters. Ah, and from gentle folks, that I'll swear weren't wrote in print, said Joe. I have learnt next to nothing, Joe. You think much of me. It's only that. Well, Pip, said Joe, be it so or be it soant, you must be a common scholar before you can be an uncommon one, I should hope. The king upon his throne, with his ground upon his head, can't sit and write his acts of parliament in print without having begun when he was an unpromoted prince with the alphabet. Ah! added Joe with a shake of the head that was full of meaning, and begun at A, too, and worked his way to Z. And I know what that is to do, though I can't say I've exactly done it. There was some hope in this piece of wisdom, and it rather encouraged me. Whether common ones as to callings and earnings, pursued Joe, reflectively, mightn't be the better of continuing for to keep company with common ones, instead of going out to play with uncommon ones, which reminds me to hope that there was a flag, perhaps? No, Joe. I'm sorry there weren't a flag, Pip. Whether that might be or mightn't be is a thing as can't be looked into now without putting your sister on the rampage, and that's a thing not to be thought of as being done intentional. Looky here, Pip, at what is said to you by a true friend, which this to you the true friend say? If you can't get to be uncommon through going straight, you'll never get to do it through going crooked. So don't tell no more on them, Pip, and live well and die happy. You are not angry with me, Joe? No, old chap. But bearing in mind that them were which I mean to say of a stunning and audacious sort, alluding to them which bordered on real cutlets and dog-fighting, a sincere well-wisher would advise, Pip, they're being dropped into your meditations when you go upstairs to bed. That's all, old chap, and don't never do it no more. When I got up to my little room and said my prayers I did not forget Joe's recommendation, and yet my young mind was in that disturbed and unthankful state that I thought long after I laid me down how common Estella would consider Joe, a mere blacksmith, how thick his boots and how coarse his hands. I thought how Joe and my sister were then sitting in the kitchen, and how I had come up to bed from the kitchen, and how Miss Havisham and Estella never sat in a kitchen, but were far above the level of such common doings. I fell asleep recalling what I used to do when I was at Miss Havisham's, as though I had been there weeks or months instead of hours, and as though it were quite an old subject of remembrance, instead of one that had arisen only that day. That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me, but it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day, struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. CHAPTER X The felicitous idea occurred to me a morning or two later when I woke, that the best step I could take towards making myself uncommon was to get out of Biddy everything she knew. In pursuance of this luminous conception I mentioned to Biddy when I went to Mr. Wopsle's Great Ants at night, that I had a particular reason for wishing to get on in life, and that I should feel very much obliged to her if she would impart all her learning to me. Biddy, who was the most obliging of girls, immediately said she would, and indeed began to carry out her promise within five minutes. The educational scheme or course established by Mr. Wopsle's Great Ant may be resolved into the following synopsis. The pupils ate apples and put straws down one another's backs, until Mr. Wopsle's Great Ant collected her energies and made an indiscriminate totter at them with a birch-rod. After receiving the charge with every mark of derision, the pupils formed in line and buzzingly passed a ragged book from hand to hand. The book had an alphabet in it, some figures and tables, and a little spelling. That is to say, it had had once. As soon as this volume began to circulate, Mr. Wopsle's Great Ant fell into a state of coma, arising either from sleep or a rheumatic paroxysm. The pupils then entered among themselves upon a competitive examination on the subject of boots, with the view of ascertaining who could tread the hardest upon whose toes. This mental exercise lasted until Biddy made a rush at them, and distributed three defaced bibles, shaped as if they had been unskillfully cut off the chump-end of something, more allegedly printed at the best than any curiosities of literature I have since met with, speckled all over with iron mold, and having various specimens of the insect world smashed between their leaves. This part of the course was usually lightened by several single combats between Biddy and refractory students. When the fights were over, Biddy gave out the number of a page, and then we all read aloud what we could—or what we couldn't—in a frightful chorus, Biddy leading with a high shrill monotonous voice, and none of us having the least notion of, or reverence for, what we were reading about. When this horrible din had lasted a certain time it mechanically awoke Mr. Wopsle's great aunt, who staggered at a boy fortuitously and pulled his ears. This was understood to terminate the course for the evening, and we emerged into the air with shrieks of intellectual victory. It is fair to remark that there was no prohibition against any pupils entertaining himself with a slate or even with the ink, when there was any, but that it was not easy to pursue that branch of study in the winter season on account of the little general shop in which the classes were holding, and which was also Mr. Wopsle's great aunt's sitting-room and bed-chamber, being but faintly illuminated through the agency of one low-spirited clip-candle and no snuffers. It appeared to me that it would take time to become uncommon under these circumstances. Nevertheless, I resolved to try it, and that very evening Biddy entered on our special agreement by imparting some information from her little catalogue of prices under the head of moist sugar and leading me to copy at home a large old English D which she had imitated from the heading of some newspaper, and which I supposed, until she told me what it was, to be a design for a buckle. Of course there was a public-house in the village, and of course Joe liked sometimes to smoke his pipe there. I had received strict orders from my sister to call for him at the three-jolly bargemen that evening on my way from school and bring him home at my peril. To the three-jolly bargemen, therefore, I directed my steps. There was a bar at the jolly bargemen with some alarmingly long chalk-scores in it on the wall at the side of the door which seemed to me to be never paid off. They had been there ever since I could remember and had grown more than I had. But there was a quantity of chalk about our country, and perhaps the people neglected no opportunity of turning it to account. It being Saturday night I found the landlord looking rather grimly at these records, but as my business was with Joe and not with him, I merely wished him good evening, and passed into the common-room at the end of the passage, where there was a bright large kitchen fire and where Joe was smoking his pipe in company with Mr. Wopsle and a stranger. Joe greeted me as usual with, Hello, Pip-Bold chap! And the moment he said that the stranger turned his head and looked at me. He was a secret-looking man whom I have never seen before.  He had a pipe in his mouth, and he took it out, and after slowly blowing all his smoke away and looking hard at me all the time, nodded. So I nodded, and then he nodded again, and made room on the settle beside him that I might sit down there. But as I was used to sit beside Joe whenever I entered that place of resort, I said, No, thank you, sir, and fell into the space Joe made for me on the opposite settle. The strange man, after glancing at Joe and seeing that his attention was otherwise engaged, nodded to me again when I had taken my seat and then rubbed his leg in a very odd way as it struck me. You was saying, said the strange man, turning to Joe, that you was a blacksmith. Yes, I said it, you know, said Joe. What'll you drink, Mr.? You didn't mention your name, by the by. Joe mentioned it now, and the strange man called him by it. What'll you drink, Mr.? Gargory, at my expense to top up with? Well, said Joe, to tell you the truth, I ain't much in the habit of drinking at anybody's expense but my own. Habit? No. Return the stranger. But once in a way, and on a Saturday night, too, come, put a name to it, Mr. Gargory. I wouldn't wish to be stiff company, said Joe. Rum. Rum, repeated the stranger. And will the other gentleman originate a sentiment? Rum, said Mr. Wopsle. Three rums, cried the stranger, calling to the landlord, glasses round. This other gentleman, observed Joe by way of introducing Mr. Wopsle, is a gentleman that you would like to hear give it out, our clerk, at church. Aha! said the stranger quickly, and cocking his eye at me. The lonely church, right out on the marshes, with graves round it. That's it, said Joe. The stranger, with a comfortable kind of grunt over his pipe, put his legs up on the saddle that he had to himself. He wore a flapping, broad-brimmed traveller's hat, and under it a handkerchief tied over his head in the manner of a cap, so that he showed no hair. As he looked at the fire, I thought I saw a cunning expression, followed by a half laugh come into his face. I am not acquainted with this country, gentlemen, but it seems a solitary country, towards the river. Most marshes is solitary, said Joe. No doubt, no doubt. Do you find any gypsies now, or tramps, or vagrants of any sort, out there? No, said Joe. None but a runaway convict now and then, and we don't find them easy. Eh, Mr. Wopsle? Mr. Wopsle, with a majestic remembrance of old discomfiture, assented, but not warmly. Seems you have been out after such, asked the stranger. Once, returned Joe, not that we wanted to take them, you understand. We went out as lookers on. Me and Mr. Wopsle and Pip. Didn't us, Pip? Yes, Joe. The stranger looked at me again, still cocking his eye as if he were expressly taking aim at me with his invisible gun, and said, He's a likely young parcel of bones, that. What is it you call him? Pip, said Joe. Crissand Pip? No, not Crissand Pip. Sir name Pip. No, said Joe. It's a kind of family name that he gave himself when an infant, and is called by. One of yours? Well, said Joe, meditatively, not, of course, that it could be in any wise necessary to consider about it, but because it was the way at the Jolly Bargeman to seem to consider deeply about everything that was discussed over Pip's. Well, no. No, he ain't. Nevy, said the strange man. Well, said Joe, with the same appearance of profound cogitation. He is not, no, not to deceive you. He is not my Nevy. What the blue blazes is he? asked the stranger, which appeared to me to be an inquiry of unnecessary strength. Mr. Wopsle struck in upon that, as one who knew all about relationships, having professional occasion to bear in mind what female relations a man might not marry, and expounded the ties between me and Joe. Having his hand in, Mr. Wopsle finished off with the most terrifically snarling passage from Richard III, and seemed to think he had done quite enough to account for it when he added, as the poet says. And here I may remark that when Mr. Wopsle referred to me, he considered it a necessary part of such reference to rumple my hair and poke it into my eyes. I cannot conceive why everybody of his standing who visited at our house should always have put me through the same inflammatory process under similar circumstances. Yet I do not call to mind that I was ever in my earlier youth the subject of remark in our social-family circle, but some large-handed person took some such ophthalmic steps to patronize me. All this while the strange man looked at nobody but me, and looked at me as if he were determined to have a shot at me at last, and bring me down. But he said nothing after offering his blue blaze's observation, until the glasses of rum and water were brought, and then he made his shot, and a most extraordinary shot it was. It was not a verbal remark, but a proceeding in dumb shell, and was pointedly addressed to me. He stirred his rum and water pointedly at me, and he tasted his rum and water pointedly at me. And he stirred it, and he tasted it. Not with a spoon that was brought to him, but with a file. He did this so that nobody but I saw the file, and when he had done it he wiped the file and put it in a breast pocket. I knew it to be Joe's file, and I knew that he knew my convict the moment I saw the instrument. I sat gazing at him, spellbound. But he now reclined on his saddle, taking very little notice of me, and talking principally about turnips. There was a delicious sense of cleaning up and making a quiet pause before going on in life afresh in our village on Saturday nights, which stimulated Joe to dare to stay out half an hour longer on Saturdays than at other times. The half hour and the rum and water running out together, Joe got up to go and took me by the hand. Stop half a moment, Mr. Gargory, said the strange man. I think I've got a bright new shilling somewhere in my pocket, and if I have the boys shall have it. He looked it out from a handful of small change, folded it in some crumpled paper, and gave it to me. Yours, said he, mind your own. I thanked him, staring at him far beyond the bounds of good manners, and holding tight to Joe. He gave Joe good night, and he gave Mr. Wopsle good night, who went out with us, and he gave me only a look with his aiming eye. No, not a look, for he shut it up, but wonders may be done with an eye by hiding it. On the way home, if I had been in a humor for talking, the talk must have been all on my side, for Mr. Wopsle parted from us at the door of the jolly bargement, and Joe went all the way home with his mouth wide open to rinse the rum out with as much air as possible. But I was in a manner stupefied by this turning up of my old misdeed and old acquaintance, and could think of nothing else. My sister was not in a very bad temper when we presented ourselves in the kitchen, and Joe was encouraged by that unusual circumstance to tell her about the bright shilling. A badden I'll be bound, said Mrs. Joe triumphantly, or he wouldn't have given it to the boy. Let's look at it. I took it out of the paper, and it proved to be a good one. But what's this, said Mrs. Joe, throwing down the shilling and catching up the paper. Two one-pound notes! Nothing less than two fat, sweltering one-pound notes that seem to have been on terms of the warmest intimacy with all the cattle markets in the county. Joe caught up his hat again, and ran with them to the Jolly Bargeman to restore them to their owner. While he was gone I sat down on my usual stool and looked vacantly at my sister, feeling pretty sure that the man would not be there. Presently Joe came back, saying that the man was gone but that he, Joe, had left word at the three Jolly Bargemen concerning the notes. Then my sister sealed them up in a piece of paper, and put them under some dried rose-leaves in an ornamental teapot, on the top of a press in the State Parlor. There they remained, a nightmare to me, many and many a night and day. I had sadly broken sleep when I got to bed, through thinking of the strange men taking aim at me with this invisible gun, and of the guiltily course and common thing it was to be on secret terms of conspiracy with convicts, a feature in my low career that I had previously forgotten. I was haunted by the file, too. A dread possessed me that when I least expected it, the file would reappear. I coaxed myself to sleep by thinking of Miss Havishams next Wednesday, and in my sleep I saw the file coming at 10. . .