"Was anybody else there?" asked Mr. Pumblechook.
"Four dogs," said I.
"Large or small?"
"Immense," said I. "And they fought for veal cutlets out of a silver basket."
Mr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another again, in utter amazement. I was perfectly frantic–a reckless witness under the torture–and would have told them anything.
"Where was this coach, in the name of gracious?" asked my sister.
"In Miss Havisham's room." They stared again. "But there weren't any horses to it." I added this saving clause, in the moment of rejecting four richly caparisoned coursers which I had had wild thoughts of harnessing.
"Can this be possible, uncle?" asked Mrs. Joe. "What can the boy mean?"
"I'll tell you. Mum," said Mr. Pumblechook. "My opinion is, it's a sedan-chair. She's flighty, you know–very flighty–quite flighty enough to pass her days in a sedan-chair."
