“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. “No, no,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, bethinking herself of Oliver’s old friend; “run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap—make haste. You can hold a knife to that black eye as you run along, and it’ll keep the swelling down.” Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye. CHAPTER VII. OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY. NOAH CLAYPOLE ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket, and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. “Why, what’s the matter with the boy?” said the old pauper. “Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!” cried Noah, with well-affected dismay, and in tones so loud and agitated that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,—which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beadle, acted upon by a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. “Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!” said Noah: “Oliver, sir,—Oliver has——” “What?—what?” interposed Mr. Bumble, with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. “Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?” “No, sir, no; not run away, sir, but he’s turned wicious,” replied Noah. “He tried to murder me, sir, and then he tried to murder Charlotte, and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! such agony, please, sir!” and here Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.