“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 mantrap!’ So he is. If he is not⁠—” Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was 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 eyeglass, which he wore attached to a broad black ribbon, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.