“Dead, Mr. Peggotty?” I hinted, after a respectful pause.
“Drowndead,” said Mr. Peggotty.
I was very much surprised that Mr. Peggotty was not Ham’s father, and began to wonder whether I was mistaken about his relationship to anybody else there. I was so curious to know, that I made up my mind to have it out with Mr. Peggotty.
“Little Em’ly,” I said, glancing at her. “She is your daughter, isn’t she, Mr. Peggotty?”
“No, sir. My brother-in-law, Tom, was her father.”
I couldn’t help it. “—Dead, Mr. Peggotty?” I hinted, after another respectful silence.
“Drowndead,” said Mr. Peggotty.
I felt the difficulty of resuming the subject, but had not got to the bottom of it yet, and must get to the bottom somehow. So I said:
“Haven’t you any children, Mr. Peggotty?”
“No, master,” he answered with a short laugh. “I’m a bacheldore.”
“A bachelor!” I said, astonished. “Why, who’s that, Mr. Peggotty?” pointing to the person in the apron who was knitting.
“That’s Missis Gummidge,” said Mr. Peggotty.
“Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty?”
But at this point Peggotty—I mean my own peculiar Peggotty—made such impressive motions to me not to ask any more questions, that I could only sit and look at all the silent company, until it was time to go to