from Mrs. Sowerberry, the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life to come further down.
“Oh, you little wretch!” screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training, “Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, horrid villain!” And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might, accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.
Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground and pommelled him behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair and burst into tears.
“Bless her, she’s going off!” said Charlotte. “A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!”
“Oh! Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath and a sufficiency of cold water which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. “Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!”
“Ah! mercy indeed, ma‘am,” was the reply. “I only hope this’ll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma’am, when I come in.”
“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 occurrence 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 claspknife at his eye.
CHAPTER VII
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
“Oh, you little wretch!” screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training, “Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, horrid villain!” And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might, accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.
Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground and pommelled him behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair and burst into tears.
“Bless her, she’s going off!” said Charlotte. “A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!”
“Oh! Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath and a sufficiency of cold water which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. “Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!”
“Ah! mercy indeed, ma‘am,” was the reply. “I only hope this’ll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma’am, when I come in.”
“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 occurrence 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 claspknife at his eye.
CHAPTER VII
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
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