can most distinctly say, that for many months he
continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole:
who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing
the new boy promoted to the black stick and hat-band, while he, the old one,
remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill,
because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr.
Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side,
and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as
the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of
a brewery.
    And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have
to record an act, slight and un-important perhaps in appearance, but which
indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and
proceedings.
    One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual
dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton - a pound and a half of the
worst end of the neck - when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued
a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious,
considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating
and tantalising young Oliver Twist.
    Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth;
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 other topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned
charity-boy as he was. But, none of these taunts producing the desired effect of
making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in this
attempt, did what many small wits, with far greater reputations than Noah,
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