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.