any more of these dreadful creatures that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! he was all but killed, ma'am, when I came in."
"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.
"What's to be done!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Your master's not at home,—there's not a man in the house,—and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes." Oliver's vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question rendered this occurrence highly probable.
"Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am," said Charlotte, "unless we send for the police-officers."
"Or the millingtary," suggested Mr. Claypole.
