My father’s family name was Pirrip, and my Christian name was Philip. So, I called myself Pip.
My sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, married the blacksmith. I never saw my father or my mother.
That day I was at the churchyard. I was very sad and began to cry.
“Keep still[1], you little devil!” cried a terrible voice. A man stood up among the graves, “or I’ll cut your throat!”
A fearful man with a great chain on his legs. A man with no hat, and with broken shoes. He had an old rag tied round his head.
“Oh! Don’t cut my throat, sir,” I pleaded in terror. “Pray don’t do it, sir.”
“Tell me your name!” said the man. “Quick!”
“Pip. Pip, sir.”
“Show me where you live!” said the man.
I pointed to our village, a mile or more from the church. The man turned me upside down[2], and emptied my pockets. He found a piece of bread.
“You young dog,” said the man, “where’s your mother?”
“There, sir!” said I. “She lies there.”
“Oh!” said he. “And is your father with your mother?”
“Yes, sir,” said I.
“Ha!” he muttered then. “Who do you live with?[3]”
“My sister, sir – Mrs. Joe Gargery – wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir.”
“Blacksmith?” said he.
Then he looked down at his leg.
“Do you know what a file is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So bring me a file and some food. Or I’ll eat your heart and liver.”
I was dreadfully frightened. He continued:
“Listen. Bring me, tomorrow morning, the file and the food. You will do it, and you will tell nobody about me. So you will live. If you do not do this, my friend will take your heart and liver out. You may lock your door, your may lie in bed, you may draw the clothes over your head, but that man will softly creep and creep his way to you and catch you. Now, what do you say?”
“I will bring you the file and some food. I will come to you early in the morning,” I answered.
“Now,” he said, “you remember what you promise, and you remember that man. Go home!”
“Good night, sir,” I faltered and ran away.
My sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I. She was not a good-looking woman. I think that she made Joe marry her[4].
Joe Gargery was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth face, and with blue eyes. He was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow. And he was very strong.
My sister was tall and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron. It was fastened over her figure behind with two loops.
Joe’s forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house. When I ran home from the churchyard, the forge was shut up. Joe was sitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I were fellow-sufferers[5]. I raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him.
“Mrs. Joe is looking for you, Pip. And she’s out now.”
“Is she? How long, Joe?”
“Well,” said Joe, “about five minutes, Pip. She’s coming! Get behind the door, old chap[6].”
I took the advice. My sister came in.
“Where did you go, you young monkey?” asked she.
“I went to the churchyard,” said I.
I was crying and rubbing myself.
“Churchyard!” repeated my sister. “Churchyard, indeed! You’ll drive me to the churchyard, one of these days!”
My sister set the tea-things. She cut some bread and butter for us. But, though I was hungry, I dared not eat my slice. I was afraid of my dreadful acquaintance, and his ally, the more dreadful man.
It was Christmas Eve. My sister told me to stir the pudding for next day, with a copper-stick, from seven to eight. I decided to steal some food afterwards and bring it to my new “friend”. Suddenly I heard shots.
“Hark!” said I; “is it a gun, Joe?”
“Ah!” said Joe. “A convict ran away.”
“What does that mean, Joe?” said I.
Mrs. Joe said, snappishly, “Escaped.”
I asked Joe, “What’s a convict?”
“A criminal. That convict ran away last night,” said Joe, aloud, “after sunset. And they fired. They are warning of him. And now it appears they’re firing again because they are warning of another.”
“Who’s firing?” said I.
“Ask no silly questions,” interposed my sister, “what a questioner he is!”
It was not very polite, I thought. But she never was polite unless there was company.
“Mrs. Joe,” said I, “please tell me, where is the firing coming from?[7]”
“Lord bless the boy![8]” exclaimed my sister. “From the Hulks!”
“Oh-h!” said I, looking at Joe. “Hulks!”
“And please, what’s Hulks?” said I.
“Hulks are prison-ships[9]!” exclaimed my sister.
She pointed me out with her needle and thread, and shook her head at me,
“Answer him one question, and he’ll ask you a dozen directly!”
It was too much for Mrs. Joe. She immediately rose.
“I tell you, young fellow,” said she, “people are in the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob, and forge, and do all sorts of bad things. And they always begin by asking questions[10]. Now, you go to bed!”
She never allowed me to light a candle, and I went upstairs in the dark. Hulks! I was clearly on my way there. I began to asking questions, and I was going to rob Mrs. Joe.
But I was in mortal terror of the man who wanted my heart and liver. I was in mortal terror of my interlocutor with the iron leg. I was in mortal terror of myself, too.
