"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.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved, for Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick with undiminished vigour at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity, as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley before opening the door: with this view, he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude, and then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone,
"Oliver!"
"Come; you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside.
"Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble.
"Yes," replied Oliver.
"Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?" said Mr. Bumble.
"No!" replied Oliver, boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole, drew himself up to his full height, and looked from one to another of the three bystanders in mute astonishment.