“Look here! do you see this? Isn’t it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a piece of this poor-surgeon’s-friend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death at last. It will, sir; orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be content to eat my own head, sir!” This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made: and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting, for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being ever brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig’s head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting—to put entirely out of the question a very thick coating of powder. “I’ll eat my head, sir,” repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. “Hallo! what’s that?” he added, looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two. “This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,” said Mr. Brownlow. Oliver bowed. “You don’t mean to say that’s the boy that had the fever, I hope?” said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little further. “Wait a minute, don’t speak: stop—” continued Mr. Grimwig abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; “that’s the boy that had the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, that had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head and his too.” “No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. “Come, put down your hat, and speak to my young friend.” “I feel strongly on this subject, sir,” said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. “There’s always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street, and I _know_ it’s put there by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. ‘Don’t go to him,’ I called out of the window, ‘he’s an assassin,—a man-trap!’ So he is. If he is not——” Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick, which as always understood by his friends to imply the customary offer whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down, and, opening a double eye-glass which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver, who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. “That’s the boy, is it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length. “That is the boy,” replied Mr. Brownlow, nodding good-humouredly to Oliver. “How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig. “A great deal better, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.