Chapter 7

           NoahClaypoleranalongthestreetsathisswiftestpace,andpausednotonceforbreath,untilhereachedtheworkhouse-gate.Havingrestedhere,foraminuteorso,tocollectagoodburstofsobsandanimposingshowoftearsandterror,heknockedloudlyatthewicket;andpresentedsucharuefulfacetotheagedpauperwhoopenedit,thatevenhe,whosawnothingbutruefulfacesabouthimatthebestoftimes,startedbackinastonishment.

           ‘Why,what’sthematterwiththeboy!’saidtheoldpauper.

           ‘Mr.Bumble!Mr.Bumble!’criedNoah,witwell-affecteddismay:andintonessoloudandagitated,thattheynotonlycaughttheearofMr.Bumblehimself,whohappenedtobehardby,butalarmedhimsomuchthatherushedintotheyardwithouthiscockedhat—whichisaverycuriousandremarkablecircumstance:asshowingthatevenabeadle,acteduponasuddenandpowerfulimpulse,maybeafflictedwithamomentaryvisitationoflossofself-possession,andforgetfulnessofpersonaldignity.

           ‘Oh,Mr.Bumble,sir!’saidNoah:‘Oliver,sir—Oliverhas—’

           ‘What?What?’interposedMr.Bumble:withagleamofpleasureinhismetalliceyes.‘Notrunaway;hehasn’trunaway,hashe,Noah?’

           ‘No,sir,no.Notrunaway,sir,buthe’sturnedwicious,’repliedNoah.‘Hetriedtomurderme,sir;andthenhetriedtomurderCharlotte;andthenmissis.Oh!whatdreadfulpainitis!

           Suchagony,please,sir!’Andhere,Noahwrithedandtwistedhisbodyintoanextensivevarietyofeel-likepositions;