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
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.