"I know, but this is another pint, a separate matter. A man can′t starve; at least I can′t. I took some wittles, up at the willage over yonder - where the church stands a′most out on the marshes."
"You mean stole," said the sergeant.
"And I′ll tell you where from. From the blacksmith′s."
"Halloa!" said the sergeant, staring at Joe.
"Halloa, Pip!" said Joe, staring at me.
"It was some broken wittles - that′s what it was - and a dram of liquor, and a pie."
"Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?" asked the sergeant, confidentially.
"My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. Don′t you know, Pip?"
"So," said my convict, turning his eyes on Joe in a moody manner, and without the least glance at me; "so you′re the blacksmith, are you? Than I′m sorry to say, I′ve eat your pie."
"God knows you′re welcome to it - so far as it was ever mine," returned Joe, with a saving remembrance of Mrs. Joe. "We don′t know what you have done, but we wouldn′t have you starved to death for it, poor miserable fellow-creatur. - Would us, Pip?"
The something that I had noticed before, clicked in the man′s throat again, and he turned his back. The boat had returned, and his guard were ready, so we followed him to the landing-place made of rough stakes and stones, and saw him put into the boat, which was rowed by a crew of convicts like himself. No one seemed surprised to see him, or interested in seeing him, or glad to see him, or sorry to see him, or spoke a word, except that somebody in the boat growled as if to dogs, "Give way, you!" which was the signal for the dip of the oars. By the light of the torches, we saw the black Hulk lying out a little way from the mud of the shore, like a wicked Noah′s ark. Cribbed and barred and moored by massive rusty chains, the prison-ship seemed in my young eyes to be ironed like the prisoners. We saw the boat go alongside, and we saw him taken up the side and disappear. Then, the ends of the torches were flung hissing into the water, and went out, as if it were all over with him.
Chapter 6
My state of mind regarding the pilfering from which I had been so unexpectedly exonerated, did not impel me to frank disclosure; but I hope it had some dregs of good at the bottom of it.
I do not recall that I felt any tenderness of conscience in reference to Mrs. Joe, when the fear of being found out was lifted off me. But I loved Joe - perhaps for no better reason in those early days than because the dear fellow let me love him - and, as to him, my inner self was not so easily composed. It was much upon my mind (particularly when I first saw him looking about for his file) that I ought to tell Joe the whole truth. Yet I did not, and for the reason that I mistrusted that if I did, he would think me worse than I was. The fear of losing Joe′s confidence, and of thenceforth sitting in the chimney-corner at night staring drearily at my for ever lost companion and friend, tied up my tongue. I morbidly represented to myself that if Joe knew it, I never afterwards could see him at the fireside feeling his fair whisker, without thinking that he was meditating on it.
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