“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 clasp-knife at his eye.
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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 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 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 the moment suffering the acutest torture.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effects 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 around, 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, an 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.