“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, and 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.
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.