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Chapter 2

           

           Joe’sforgeadjoinedourhouse,whichwasawoodenhouse,asmanyofthedwellingsinourcountryweremostofthem,atthattime.WhenIranhomefromthechurchyard,theforgewasshutup,andJoewassittingaloneinthekitchen.JoeandIbeingfellow-sufferers,andhavingconfidencesassuch,Joeimpartedaconfidencetome,themomentIraisedthelatchofthedoorandpeepedinathimoppositetoit,sittinginthechimneycorner.

           "Mrs.Joehasbeenoutadozentimes,lookingforyou,Pip.Andshe’soutnow,makingitabaker’sdozen."

           "Isshe?"

           "Yes,Pip,"saidJoe;"andwhat’sworse,she’sgotTicklerwithher."

           Atthisdismalintelligence,Itwistedtheonlybuttononmywaistcoatroundandround,andlookedingreatdepressionatthefire.Ticklerwasawax-endedpieceofcane,wornsmoothbycollisionwithmytickledframe.

           "Shesotdown,"saidJoe,"andshegotup,andshemadeagrabatTickler,andsheRam-pagedout.That’swhatshedid,"saidJoe,slowlyclearingthefirebetweenthelowerbarswiththepoker,andlookingatit;"sheRam-pagedout,Pip."

           "Hasshebeengonelong,Joe?"Ialwaystreatedhimasalargerspeciesofchild,andasnomorethanmyequal.

           "Well,"saidJoe,glancingupattheDutchclock,"she’sbeenontheRam-page,thislastspell,aboutfiveminutes,Pip.She’sacoming!Getbehindthedoor,oldchap,andhavethejack-towelbetwixtyou.

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