“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.