With her assistance, and the help of her granddaughter, Biddy,
I struggled through the alphabet, as if it had been a bramble bush,
getting considerably worried and scratched by each letter. After that, the
nine figures began to add to my misery, but at last I began to read,
write, and cipher on the smallest scale.
One night, about a year after our hunt for the convicts, Joe and I sat
together in the chimney corner while I struggled with a letter which I was
writing on my slate to Joe, for practice. As we sat there, Joe made the
fire and swept the hearth, for we were momentarily expecting Mrs. Joe. It
was market day, and she had gone to market with Uncle Pumblechook to
assist him in buying such household stuffs and goods as required a woman's
judgment. Just as we had completed our preparations, she and Uncle
Pumblechook drove up, and came in wrapped up to the eyes, for it was a
bitter night.
"Now," said Mrs. Joe, unwrapping herself in haste and excitement, "if this
boy ain't grateful to-night, he never will be!"
I looked as grateful as any boy could who had no idea what he was to be
grateful about, and after many side remarks addressed to the others, Mrs.
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