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"Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, as a man jumped out 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 grey, 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 flints2, and stung by nettles, and torn by briars3; 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. "Please don't do it, sir."
"Tell us your name!", said the man. "Quick!" "Pip, sir."
"Once more", said the man, staring at me. "Speak up!" "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-shore4 among the alder-trees and pollards5, 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 small for my years, and not strong.
"I could eat 'em," said the man, with a threatening shake of his head, "and I've half a mind to!"
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 jumped, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"There, sir!", I FffTtTBIH explained. "Also Georgiana. That's my mother."
"Oh!" said he, coming back. "And is that your father alongside your mother?"
"Yes, sir," said I; "him too; late6 of this parish7."
"Ha!" he muttered then, considering. "Who d'ye live with -supposin' I kindly let you live, which I han't made up my mind about?"
"My sister, sir - Mrs Joe Gargery - wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith8, 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 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 I let you live. You know what a file is?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you know what wittles9 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.

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