"A beadle—a parish beadle, or I'll eat my head!"
"Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow. "Take a seat, will you?"
Mr. Bumble sat himself down, quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance, and said with a little impatience,
"Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?"—"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble.
"And you are a beadle, are you not?" inquired Mr. Grimwig.
"I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen," rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.
"Of course," observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend. "I knew he was. His great-coat is a parochial cut, and he looks a beadle all over."
Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed:
"Do you know where this poor boy is now?"
"No more than nobody," replied Mr. Bumble.