“Ah!” said Joe; “there’s another conwict off.”
“What does that mean?” said I.
Mrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said snappishly: “Escaped. Escaped.” Administering the definition like medicine.
“There was a conwict off last night,” said Joe, aloud, “after sunset gun. And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they’re firing warning of another.”
“Who’s firing?” said I.
“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, as a last resort, “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!”
“And please, what’s hulks?” said I.