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!” 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 who had the fever, I hope?” said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. “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 who had the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head, and his too.”