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-
aunt 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 unskilfully cut off the
chump-end of something), more illegibly printed
at the best than any curiosities of literature I
have since met with, speckled all over with
ironmould, 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 pupil’s
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 holden—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
dip-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 lending 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 rny 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 rne
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 “Halloa, Pip, old chap!” and
the moment he said that, the stranger turned
his head and looked at me.

He was a secret-looking man whom I had
never seen before. His head was all on one side,
and one of his eyes was half shut up, as if he
were taking aim at something with an invisible
gun. 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.
Gargery? 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,” returned the stranger, “but
once and away, and on a Saturday night too.
Come! Put a name to it, Mr. Gargery.”

“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 the 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