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- Чарльз Диккенс
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"
Not
here
?
"
exclaimed
the
man
,
striking
his
left
cheek
mercilessly
,
with
the
flat
of
his
hand
"
Yes
,
there
!
"
"
Where
is
he
?
"
He
crammed
what
little
food
was
left
,
into
the
breast
of
his
gray
jacket
.
"
Show
me
the
way
he
went
.
I
’
ll
pull
him
down
,
like
a
bloodhound
.
Curse
this
iron
on
my
sore
leg
!
Give
us
hold
of
the
file
,
boy
.
"
I
indicated
in
what
direction
the
mist
had
shrouded
the
other
man
,
and
he
looked
up
at
it
for
an
instant
.
But
he
was
down
on
the
rank
wet
grass
,
filing
at
his
iron
like
a
madman
,
and
not
minding
me
or
minding
his
own
leg
,
which
had
an
old
chafe
upon
it
and
was
bloody
,
but
which
he
handled
as
roughly
as
if
it
had
no
more
feeling
in
it
than
the
file
.
I
was
very
much
afraid
of
him
again
,
now
that
he
had
worked
himself
into
this
fierce
hurry
,
and
I
was
likewise
very
much
afraid
of
keeping
away
from
home
any
longer
.
I
told
him
I
must
go
,
but
he
took
no
notice
,
so
I
thought
the
best
thing
I
could
do
was
to
slip
off
.
The
last
I
saw
of
him
,
his
head
was
bent
over
his
knee
and
he
was
working
hard
at
his
fetter
,
muttering
impatient
imprecations
at
it
and
at
his
leg
.
The
last
I
heard
of
him
,
I
stopped
in
the
mist
to
listen
,
and
the
file
was
still
going
.
I
fully
expected
to
find
a
Constable
in
the
kitchen
,
waiting
to
take
me
up
.
But
not
only
was
there
no
Constable
there
,
but
no
discovery
had
yet
been
made
of
the
robbery
.
Mrs
.
Joe
was
prodigiously
busy
in
getting
the
house
ready
for
the
festivities
of
the
day
,
and
Joe
had
been
put
upon
the
kitchen
doorstep
to
keep
him
out
of
the
dust
-
pan
—
an
article
into
which
his
destiny
always
led
him
,
sooner
or
later
,
when
my
sister
was
vigorously
reaping
the
floors
of
her
establishment
.
"
And
where
the
deuce
ha
’
you
been
?
"
was
Mrs
.
Joe
’
s
Christmas
salutation
,
when
I
and
my
conscience
showed
ourselves
.
I
said
I
had
been
down
to
hear
the
Carols
.
"
Ah
!
well
!
"
observed
Mrs
.
Joe
.
"
You
might
ha
’
done
worse
.
"
Not
a
doubt
of
that
I
thought
.
"
Perhaps
if
I
warn
’
t
a
blacksmith
’
s
wife
,
and
(
what
’
s
the
same
thing
)
a
slave
with
her
apron
never
off
,
I
should
have
been
to
hear
the
Carols
,
"
said
Mrs
.
Joe
.
"
I
’
m
rather
partial
to
Carols
,
myself
,
and
that
’
s
the
best
of
reasons
for
my
never
hearing
any
.
"
Joe
,
who
had
ventured
into
the
kitchen
after
me
as
the
dustpan
had
retired
before
us
,
drew
the
back
of
his
hand
across
his
nose
with
a
conciliatory
air
,
when
Mrs
.
Joe
darted
a
look
at
him
,
and
,
when
her
eyes
were
withdrawn
,
secretly
crossed
his
two
forefingers
,
and
exhibited
them
to
me
,
as
our
token
that
Mrs
.
Joe
was
in
a
cross
temper
.
This
was
so
much
her
normal
state
,
that
Joe
and
I
would
often
,
for
weeks
together
,
be
,
as
to
our
fingers
,
like
monumental
Crusaders
as
to
their
legs
.
We
were
to
have
a
superb
dinner
,
consisting
of
a
leg
of
pickled
pork
and
greens
,
and
a
pair
of
roast
stuffed
fowls
.
A
handsome
mince
-
pie
had
been
made
yesterday
morning
(
which
accounted
for
the
mincemeat
not
being
missed
)
,
and
the
pudding
was
already
on
the
boil
.
These
extensive
arrangements
occasioned
us
to
be
cut
off
unceremoniously
in
respect
of
breakfast
;
"
for
I
ain
’
t
,
"
said
Mrs
.
Joe
—
"
I
ain
’
t
a
going
to
have
no
formal
cramming
and
busting
and
washing
up
now
,
with
what
I
’
ve
got
before
me
,
I
promise
you
!
"
