Mrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said snappishly, "Escaped. Escaped."
"There was a conwict off last night," added Joe, "after sunset-gun. And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they're firing warning of another."
"Drat that boy," interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work, "what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies."
It was not very polite to herself, I thought, as she always answered. But she never was polite, unless there was company.
Presently Joe said to me in a quiet kind of whisper. "Hulks, Pip; prison ships. They're firing because one of the thieves on the hulks is got away."
Thieves! Prison ships! And here I was planning to rob my sister of the bread and butter; and honest Joe of a file! Truly conscience is a fearful thing, yet there was no turning back for me.
That night the rest of the dreadful deed was done. Just before daybreak I crept out, carrying the file which I had found among Joe's tools, the slice of bread, and a pie which was too convenient in the pantry, and which I took in the hope it was not intended for early use and would not be missed for some time.
I found the man with the iron waiting for me, crouched behind a tombstone.
"Well," said he, "I believe you. Give me them wittles, quick."
I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now noticed a decided similarity between the dog's way of eating and the man's. The man took strong, sharp, sudden bites, just like the dog. He swallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast; and he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was danger in every direction of somebody's coming to take the pie away.
"Now give us hold of the file, boy," he said, when he had finished swallowing.
I did so, and he bent to the iron like a madman, and began filing it away in quick, fierce rasps. I judged this a good time to slip away, and he paid no further attention to me. The last I heard of him, the file was still going.
"And where the mischief ha' you been?" was Mrs. Joe's Christmas salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.
I said I had been down to hear the chimes.
"Ah, well!" observed Mrs. Joe. "You might ha' done worse."