Joe's forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house, as many of the dwellings in our country were, — most of them, at that time.
When I ran home from the churchyard, the forge was shut up, and Joe was sitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-sufferers, and having confidences as such, Joe imparted a confidence to me, the moment I raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him opposite to it, sitting in the chimney corner.
“Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times, looking for you, Pip. And she's out now, making it a baker's dozen.”
“Yes, Pip,” said Joe; “and what's worse, she's got Tickler with her.”