Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!' 'What the devil's this ?' said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels; 'young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come home directly.' 'I don't belong to them.

I don't know them.

Help! help!' cried Oliver, struggling in the man's powerful grasp.
'Help!' repeated the man.

'Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal! What books are these?
You've been a stealing 'em, have you?
Give 'em here.' With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head.
'That's right!' cried a looker-on, from a garret-window.

'That's the only way of bringing him to his senses!' 'To be sure!' cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret-window.
'It'll do him good!' said the two women.
'And he shall have it, too!' rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar.