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.

“Christened Pip?”