cocked hat—which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beadle, acted upon by 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 vicious,” 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.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever, rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces when he turned angrily round and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated as involuntary process.
“It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble, “who has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir—by young Twist.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. “I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!”
“He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,” said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
“And his missis,” interposed Mr. Claypole.
“And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?” added Mr. Bumble.
“No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,” replied Noah. “He said he wanted to.”
“Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Yes, sir,” replied Noah. “And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him—‘cause master’s out.”
“Certainly, my boy, certainly,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, smiling benignly and patting Noah’s head, which was about three inches higher than his own. “You’re a good boy—a very good boy. Here’s a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your cane, and see what’s best to be done. Don’t spare him, Bumble.”
“No, I will not, sir,” replied the beadle, adjusting the wax-end which was twisted round the bottom of his cane, for purposes of parochial flagellation.
“Tell Sowerberry not to spare him either. They’ll never do anything with him, without stripes and bruises,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“I’ll take care, sir,” replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker’s shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar door. The accounts of his ferocity, as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way
“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 vicious,” 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.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever, rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces when he turned angrily round and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated as involuntary process.
“It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble, “who has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir—by young Twist.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. “I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!”
“He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,” said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
“And his missis,” interposed Mr. Claypole.
“And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?” added Mr. Bumble.
“No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,” replied Noah. “He said he wanted to.”
“Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Yes, sir,” replied Noah. “And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him—‘cause master’s out.”
“Certainly, my boy, certainly,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, smiling benignly and patting Noah’s head, which was about three inches higher than his own. “You’re a good boy—a very good boy. Here’s a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your cane, and see what’s best to be done. Don’t spare him, Bumble.”
“No, I will not, sir,” replied the beadle, adjusting the wax-end which was twisted round the bottom of his cane, for purposes of parochial flagellation.
“Tell Sowerberry not to spare him either. They’ll never do anything with him, without stripes and bruises,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“I’ll take care, sir,” replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker’s shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar door. The accounts of his ferocity, as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way
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