“And which is Oliver?”
“Mealy. I know a friend who has 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 Mr. Grimwig. “He may have worse. He is deceiving you, my good friend.”
“I’ll swear he is not,” replied Mr. Brownlow warmly.
“If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll——” and down went the stick.
“I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!” said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table.
“And I for his falsehood with my head!” rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also.
“We shall see,” said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.
“We will,” replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; “we will.”