which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do.
"He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow.
"I don't know," replied Grimwig, pettishly.
"Don't know?"
"No, I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only know two sorts of boys,—mealy boys, and beef-faced boys."
"And which is Oliver!"
"Mealy. I know a friend who's got 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 Grimwig, "He may have worse."
Here Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently,
