Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the tablecloth; 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 hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes 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, 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.