To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of, “I don’t know—where do you come from?”
Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour-door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state.
“Come in—come in,” said the old lady: “I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should,—I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along.”
Having said this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again, and, seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run up-stairs meanwhile, and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately, which he did.
He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman eyed him closely, and at once burst into the exclamation,
“A beadle—a parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head!”
“Pray don’t interrupt just now,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Take a seat, will you?”
Mr. Bumble sat himself down, quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig’s manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle’s countenance, and said with a little impatience,
“Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bumble.