Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar.
Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead.
The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed.
'Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you ?' said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.
'He called my mother names,' replied Oliver.
'Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch ?' said Mrs.
Sowerberry.

'She deserved what he said, and worse.' 'She didn't' said Oliver.
'She did,' said Mrs.Sowerberry.
'It's a lie!' said Oliver.
Mrs.Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
This flood of tears left Mr.Sowerberry no alternative.

If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter.

To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went--it was not very extensive--kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him.

The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs.
Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr.Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary.