Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step down stairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea, which, as he did not half like the visitor’s manner, he was very happy to do.
“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“I don’t know,” replied Grimwig, pettishly.
“Don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only know two sorts of boys,—mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”
“And which is Oliver!”
“Mealy. I know a friend who’s got a beef-faced boy; a fine boy they call him, with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy, with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes—with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him, the wretch!”
“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.”
“They are not,” replied Grimwig. “He may have worse.”
Here Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently, which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.