"No doubt, no doubt. Do you find any gypsies, now, or tramps, or vagrants of any sort, out there?"
"No," said Joe; "none but a runaway convict now and then. And we don't find them, easy. Eh, Mr. Wopsle?"
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?"
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.
"No, not christened Pip."