"Halloa, Pip!" 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. "We don't know what you have done, but we wouldn't have you starved to death for it, poor miserable fellow-creatur.--Would us, Pip?"