Great Expectations | Page 4

dark flat wilderness beyond the
churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on
it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant
savage lair from which the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle of
shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.
"Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at
the side of the church porch. "Keep still, you little devil, or I'll cut your throat!"
A fearful man, all in coarse gray, with a great iron on his leg. A man with no hat, and
with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A man who had been soaked
in water, and smothered in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by
nettles, and torn by briars; who limped, and shivered, and glared, and growled; and whose
teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.
"Oh! Don't cut my throat, sir," I pleaded in terror. "Pray don't do it, sir."
"Tell us your name!" said the man. "Quick!"
"Pip, sir."
"Once more," said the man, staring at me. "Give it mouth!"
"Pip. Pip, sir."
"Show us where you live," said the man. "Pint out the place!"
I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the alder-trees and pollards,
a mile or more from the church.
The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, and emptied my
pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread. When the church came to
itself,--for he was so sudden and strong that he made it go head over heels before me, and
I saw the steeple under my feet,--when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a
high tombstone, trembling while he ate the bread ravenously.
"You young dog," said the man, licking his lips, "what fat cheeks you ha' got."
I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my years, and not strong.
"Darn me if I couldn't eat em," said the man, with a threatening shake of his head, "and if
I han't half a mind to't!"

I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn't, and held tighter to the tombstone on
which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it; partly, to keep myself from crying.
"Now lookee here!" said the man. "Where's your mother?"
"There, sir!" said I.
He started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"There, sir!" I timidly explained. "Also Georgiana. That's my mother."
"Oh!" said he, coming back. "And is that your father alonger your mother?"
"Yes, sir," said I; "him too; late of this parish."
"Ha!" he muttered then, considering. "Who d'ye live with,-- supposin' you're kindly let to
live, which I han't made up my mind about?"
"My sister, sir,--Mrs. Joe Gargery,--wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir."
"Blacksmith, eh?" said he. And looked down at his leg.
After darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to my tombstone,
took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me; so that his eyes
looked most powerfully down into mine, and mine looked most helplessly up into his.
"Now lookee here," he said, "the question being whether you're to be let to live. You
know what a file is?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you know what wittles is?"
"Yes, sir."
After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a greater sense of
helplessness and danger.
"You get me a file." He tilted me again. "And you get me wittles." He tilted me again.
"You bring 'em both to me." He tilted me again. "Or I'll have your heart and liver out."
He tilted me again.
I was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both hands, and said,
"If you would kindly please to let me keep upright, sir, perhaps I shouldn't be sick, and
perhaps I could attend more."
He gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumped over its own
weathercock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an upright position on the top of the stone,
and went on in these fearful terms:--

"You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to
me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and you never dare to say a word or dare
to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person sumever,