‘Poor fellow!’ said Mrs. Sowerberry:
looking piteously on the charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere
on a level with the crown of Oliver’s head,
rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while
this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed
some affecting tears and sniffs.
‘What’s to be done!’ exclaimed Mrs.
Sowerberry. ’Your master’s not at
home; there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll
kick that door down in ten minutes.’ Oliver’s
vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question,
rendered this occurance highly probable.
‘Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,’
said Charlotte, ’unless we send for the police-officers.’
‘Or the millingtary,’ suggested Mr. Claypole.
‘No, no,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking
herself of Oliver’s old friend. ’Run
to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly,
and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap!
Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black
eye, as you run along. It’ll keep the swelling
down.’
Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at
his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the
people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy
tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap
on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.
OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY
Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest
pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached
the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a
minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and
an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly
at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to
the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw
nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of
times, started back in astonishment.
‘Why, what’s the matter with the boy!’
said the old pauper.
‘Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!’ cried
Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones
so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the
ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard
by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the
yard without his cocked hat,—which is a
very curious and remarkable circumstance: as
showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and
powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary
visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness
of personal dignity.
‘Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!’ said Noah:
‘Oliver, sir,—Oliver has—’
‘What? What?’ interposed Mr. Bumble:
with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes.
’Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has
he, Noah?’
‘No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s
turned wicious,’ replied Noah. ’He
tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder
Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful
pain it is!
Such agony, please, sir!’ And here, Noah writhed
and twisted his body into an extensive variety of
eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand
that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver
Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and
damage, from which he was at that moment suffering
the acutest torture.
