Ham carrying me on his back and a clarisonic online small box of ours under his
arm, and Peggotty carrying another small box of ours, we turned
down lanes bestrewn with bits of chips and little hillocks of sand,
and went past gas-works, rope-walks, boat-builders’ yards,
shipwrights’ yards, ship-breakers’ yards, caulkers’ yards, riggers’
lofts, smiths’ forges, and a great litter of such places, until we came
out upon the dull waste I had already seen at a distance; when
Ham said,
‘Yon’s our house, Mas’r Davy!’
I looked in all directions, as far as I could stare over the
wilderness, and away at the sea, and away at the river, but no
house could I make out. There was a black barge, or some other
kind of superannuated boat, not far off, high and dry on the
ground, with an iron funnel sticking out of it for a chimney and
smoking very cosily; but nothing else in the way of a habitation
that was visible to me.
‘That’s not it?’ said I. ‘That ship-looking thing?’
‘That’s it, Mas’r Davy,’ returned Ham.