“Not overmuch,” replied Charlotte.“I like to see you eat ’em, Noah dear,better than eating ’em myself.”
“Lor!” said Noah, reflectively; “how queer!”
“Have another,” said Charlotte.“Here’s one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!”
“I can’t manage any more,” said Noah. “I’m very sorry.Come here, Charlotte, and I’ll kiss yer.”
“What!” said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room.“Say that again, sir.”
Charlotte uttered a scream,and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole,without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.
“Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!” said Mr. Bumble. “How dare you mention such a thing, sir?And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx?Kiss her!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. “Faugh!”
“I didn’t mean to do it!” said Noah, blubbering. “She’s always a-kissing of me,whether I like it, or not.”
“Oh, Noah,” cried Charlotte, reproachfully.
“Yer are; yer know yer are!” retorted Noah. “She’s always a-doin’ of it, Mr.Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir;and makes all manner of love!”
“Silence!” cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. “Take yourself downstairs,ma’am. Noah, you shut up the shop;say another word till your master comes home,at your peril; and, when he does come home,tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman’s shell after breakfast tomorrow morning. Do you hear sir?Kissing!” cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands.“The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful!If Parliament don’t take their abominable courses under consideration,this country’s ruined,and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!” With these words, the beadle strode,with a lofty and gloomy air,from the undertaker’s premises.
And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home,and have made all necessary preparations for the old woman’s funeral,let us set on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist,and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.
CHAPTER XXVIII. LOOKS AFTER OLIVER,AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES
“Wolves tear your throats!” muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth.“I wish I was among some of you;you’d howl the hoarser for it.”
As Sikes growled forth this imprecation,with the most desperate ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of,he rested the body of the wounded boy across his bended knee;and turned his head, for an instant,to look back at his pursuers.
There was little to be made out,in the mist and darkness;but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air,and the barking of the neighbouring dogs,roused by the sound of the alarm bell,resounded in every direction.
“Stop, you white-livered hound!” cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit, who,making the best use of his long legs,was already ahead. “Stop!”
The repetition of the word,brought Toby to a dead stand-still.For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot;and Sikes was in no mood to be played with.
“Bear a hand with the boy,” cried Sikes,beckoning furiously to his confederate. “Come back!”
Toby made a show of returning; but ventured,in a low voice, broken for want of breath,to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along.
“Quicker!” cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet,and drawing a pistol from his pocket.“Don’t play booty with me.”
At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes,again looking round,could discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in advance of them.
“It’s all up, Bill!” cried Toby; “drop the kid, and show ’em your heels.” With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit,preferring the chance of being shot by his friend,to the certainty of being taken by his enemies,fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed.Sikes clenched his teeth; took one look around;threw over the prostrate form of Oliver,the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled;ran along the front of the hedge,as if to distract the attention of those behind,from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second,before another hedge which met it at right angles;and whirling his pistol high into the air,cleared it at a bound, and was gone.
“Ho, ho, there!” cried a tremulous voice in the rear. “Pincher!Neptune!Come here, come here!”
The dogs, who, in common with their masters,seemed to have no particular relish for the sport in which they were engaged,readily answered to the command. Three men,who had by this time advanced some distance into the field,stopped to take counsel together.
“My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my _orders_,is,” said the fattest man of the party,“that we ’mediately go home again.”
“I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr.Giles,” said a shorter man;who was by no means of a slim figure,and who was very pale in the face, and very polite:as frightened men frequently are.
“I shouldn’t wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,” said the third, who had called the dogs back, “Mr.Giles ought to know.”
“Certainly,” replied the shorter man; “and whatever Mr.Giles says, it isn’t our place to contradict him. No,no, I know my sitiwation!Thank my stars, I know my sitiwation.” To tell the truth,the little man _did_ seem to know his situation,and to know perfectly well that it was by no means a desirable one;for his teeth chattered in his head as he spoke.
“You are afraid, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.
“I an’t,” said Brittles.
“You are,” said Giles.
“You’re a falsehood, Mr. Giles,” said Brittles.
“You’re a lie, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.
Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt;and Mr. Giles’s taunt had arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of going home again, imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment. The third man brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.
“I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,” said he, “we’re all afraid.”
“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Giles,who was the palest of the party.
“So I do,” replied the man.“It’s natural and proper to be afraid,under such circumstances. I am.”
“So am I,” said Brittles;“only there’s no call to tell a man he is, so bounceably.”
These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles,who at once owned that _he_ was afraid; upon which,they all three faced about,and ran back again with the completest unanimity,until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest wind of the party,as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely insisted on stopping,to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.
“But it’s wonderful,” said Mr. Giles,when he had explained, “what a man will do,when his blood is up.I should have committed murder—I know I should—if we’d caught one of them rascals.”
As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment;and as their blood, like his, had all gone down again;some speculation ensued upon the cause of this sudden change in their temperament.
“I know what it was,” said Mr. Giles; “it was the gate.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” exclaimed Brittles,catching at the idea.
“You may depend upon it,” said Giles,“that that gate stopped the flow of the excitement.I felt all mine suddenly going away,as I was climbing over it.”
By a remarkable coincidence,the other two had been visited with the same unpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was quite obvious, therefore, that it was the gate; especially as there was no doubt regarding the time at which the change had taken place, because all three remembered that they had come in sight of the robbers at the instant of its occurance.