“Good stuff, eh, sergeant?” said Mr. Pumblechook.

“I’ll tell you something,” returned the sergeant; “I suspect that stuff’s of your providing.”

Mr. Pumblechook, with a fat sort of laugh, said, “Ay, ay?  Why?”

“Because,” returned the sergeant, clapping him on the shoulder, “you’re a man that knows what’s what.”

“D’ye think so?” said Mr. Pumblechook, with his former laugh.  “Have another glass!”

“With you.  Hob and nob,” returned the sergeant.  “The top of mine to the foot of yours — the foot of yours to the top of mine — Ring once, ring twice — the best tune on the Musical Glasses!  Your health.  May you live a thousand years, and never be a worse judge of the right sort than you are at the present moment of your life!”

The sergeant tossed off his glass again and seemed quite ready for another glass.  I noticed that Mr. Pumblechook in his hospitality appeared to forget that he had made a present of the wine, but took the bottle from Mrs. Joe and had all the credit of handing it about in a gush of joviality.  Even I got some.  And he was so very free of the wine that he even called for the other bottle, and handed that about with the same liberality, when the first was gone.

As I watched them while they all stood clustering about the forge, enjoying themselves so much, I thought what terrible good sauce for a dinner my fugitive friend on the marshes was.  They had not enjoyed themselves a quarter so much, before the entertainment was brightened with the excitement he furnished.  And now, when they were all in lively anticipation of “the two villains” being taken, and when the bellows seemed to roar for the fugitives, the fire to flare for them, the smoke to hurry away in pursuit of them, Joe to hammer and clink for them, and all the murky shadows on the wall to shake at them in menace as the blaze rose and sank and the red-hot sparks dropped and died, the pale after-noon outside, almost seemed in my pitying young fancy to have turned pale on their account, poor wretches.

At last, Joe’s job was done, and the ringing and roaring stopped.  As Joe got on his coat, he mustered courage to propose that some of us should go down with the soldiers and see what came of the hunt.  Mr. Pumblechook and Mr. Hubble declined, on the plea of a pipe and ladies’ society; but Mr. Wopsle said he would go, if Joe would.  Joe said he was agreeable, and would take me, if Mrs. Joe approved.  We never should have got leave to go, I am sure, but for Mrs. Joe’s curiosity to know all about it and how it ended.  As it was, she merely stipulated, “If you bring the boy back with his head blown to bits by a musket, don’t look to me to put it together again.”