Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth, and pulled Oliver’s hair, and twitched his ears, and expressed his opinion that he was a “sneak,” and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hung whenever that desirable event should take place, and entered upon various other topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, none of these taunts producing the desired effect of making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still, and in this attempt did what many small wits, with far greater reputations than Noah, notwithstanding, do to this day when they want to be funny;—he got rather personal. “Work’us,” said Noah, “how’s your mother?” “She’s dead,” replied Oliver; “don’t you say anything about her to me!” Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly, and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression, he returned to the charge. “What did she die of, Work’us?” said Noah. “Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,” replied Oliver, more as if he were talking to himself than answering Noah. “I think I know what it must be to die of that!” “Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,” said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek. “What’s set you a-snivelling now?” “Not _you_,” replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. “Don’t think it.” “Oh, not me, eh?” sneered Noah. “No, not you,” replied Oliver, sharply. “There; that’s enough. Don’t say anything more to me about her; you’d better not!” “Better not!” exclaimed Noah. “Well! better not! Work’us, don’t be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice ’un, she was. Oh, Lor!” And here Noah nodded his head expressively, and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together for the occasion. “Yer know, Work’us,” continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver’s silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity—of all tones the most annoying—“Yer know, Work’us, it carn’t be helped now, and of course yer couldn’t help it then, and I’m very sorry for it, and I’m sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work’us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad ’un.” “What did you say?” inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly. “A regular right-down bad ’un, Work’us,” replied Noah, coolly; “and it’s a great deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else she’d have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung, which is more likely than either, isn’t it?” Crimson with fury, Oliver started up, overthrew chair and table, seized Noah by the throat, shook him in the violence of his rage till his teeth chattered in his head, and, collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.