Conscience is a dreadful thing when it accuses man or boy; but when, in the case of a boy, that secret burden co-operates with another secret burden down the leg of his trousers, it is (as I can testify) a great punishment. The guilty knowledge that I was going to rob Mrs. Joe - I never thought I was going to rob Joe, for I never thought of any of the housekeeping property as his - united to the necessity of always keeping one hand on my bread-and-butter as I sat, or when I was ordered about the kitchen on any small errand, almost drove me out of my mind.
Then, as the marsh winds made the fire glow and flare, I thought I heard the voice outside, of the man with the iron on his leg who had sworn me to secrecy, declaring that he couldn't and wouldn't starve until to-morrow, but must be fed now. At other times, I thought, What if the Howl Beast who was with so much difficulty restrained from imbruing its fangs in me, should yield to a constitutional impatience, or should mistake the time, and should think itself accredited to my heart and liver to-night, instead of to-morrow! If ever anybody's hair stood on end with terror, mine must have done so then. But, perhaps, nobody's ever did?
It was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day, with a copper-stick, from eight to nine by the Dutch clock. Happily, I slipped away, and deposited that part of my conscience in my garret bedroom.
"Hark!" said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final warm in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed; "was that a howl followed by great guns, Joe?"
"Ah!" said Joe. "The moon's on, so there's another Howler off."
"But who's firing?" said I, quite puzzled.
"Drat that boy," interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work, "what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies."
It was not very polite to herself, I thought, to imply that I should be told lies by her, even if I did ask questions. But she never was polite, unless there was company.
"Mrs. Joe," said I, "I should like to know - if you wouldn't much mind - where the firing comes from?"
"Lord bless the boy!" exclaimed my sister, as if she didn't quite mean that, but rather the contrary. "From the Hulks!"
"Oh!" said I, looking at Joe. "Hulks! And please what's Hulks?"
"That's the way with this boy!" exclaimed my sister, pointing me out with her needle and thread, and shaking her head at me. "Answer him one question, and he'll ask you a dozen directly. Hulks are Howler prison-ships, right 'cross th' meshes." We always used that name for marshes, in our country.
"I wonder how they get those Howl Beasts into ships?" said I, in a general way, and with quiet desperation.
It was too much for Mrs. Joe, who immediately rose. "I tell you what, young fellow," said she, "I didn't bring you up by hand to badger people's lives out. It would be blame to me, and not praise, if I had. People are put in the Hulks because they’s the Howlers, see? You don’t think them beasties appear out of the moon, do you? They are men, twisted and turned by the moonlight, and in their demon hides they rob us of our cattle and stalk and murder little boys.”
“They chain ‘em up, Pip ol’ chap,” said Joe, “so’s that way, when they turn, they can’t cause no trouble for the rest of us folks. 'Course they don' always stay put.”
“But how does a man become a Howl Beast?” I asked slowly.
“They always begin by asking questions,” snapped Mrs. Joe. “Now, you get along to bed!"
I was never allowed a candle to light me to bed, and, as I went upstairs in the dark, with my head tingling - from Mrs. Joe's thimble having played the tambourine upon it, to accompany her last words - I felt fearfully sensible of the great convenience that the Hulks were handy for me. I was clearly on my way there – and to becoming a Howl Beast myself. I had begun by asking questions, and I was going to rob Mrs. Joe.
