“A bad one—I’ll eat my head if he is not a bad one,” growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face.
“He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,” said Rose, colouring; “and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over.”
“I’m only sixty-one,” said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face, “and, as the devil’s in it if this Oliver is not twelve at least, I don’t see the application of that remark.”
“Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,” said Mr. Brownlow; “he does not mean what he says.”
“Yes, he does,” growled Mr. Grimwig.
“No, he does not,” said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke.
“He’ll eat his head, if he doesn’t,” growled Mr. Grimwig.
“He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,” said Mr. Brownlow.
“And he’d uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,” responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor.