 Oliver Twist, CHAPTER I. TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANTS AS ATTENDING HIS BIRTH. Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small, to wit a workhouse, and in this workhouse was born, on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, in as much as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business, at all events, the item of mortality, whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter. For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all, in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared, or if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography extent in the literature of any age or country. Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is that there was considerable difficulty in introducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration, a troublesome practice but one which Custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence, and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next, the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now if during this brief period Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a popper old woman who was rendered rather misty by an unwanted allowance of beer, and a parry-surgeon who did such matters by contract, Oliver and nature fought out the point between them. The result was that after a few struggles Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead rustled, the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow, and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, Let me see the child and die. The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire, giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said with more kindness than might have been expected of him, Oh, you must not talk about dying yet. Lord bless her, dear heart, know, interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a quarter with evidence satisfaction. Lord bless her, dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on him dead except two, and them in the work is with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her, dear heart. Think what it is to be a mother, there's her, dear young lamb, do. Apparently this consolidatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead, passed her hands over her face, gazed wildly round, shuddered, fell back, and died. They'd shaved her breast, hands, and temples, but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. It's all over, Mrs. Thingamy, said the surgeon at last. Ah, poor dear, so it is, said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle which had fallen out on the pillow as she stopped to take up the child. Poor dear! You needn't mind sending up to me if the child cries, nurse, said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. It's very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is. He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side, on his way to the door, added, She was a good-looking girl, too. Where did she come from? She was brought here last night, replied the old woman, by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance for her shoes or worn to pieces, but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows. The surgeon leaned over the body and raised the left hand. The old story, he said, shaking his head. No wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good night! The medical gentleman walked away to dinner, and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant. With an excellent example of the power of dress young Oliver Twist was, wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar. It would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station and society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once, a perished child. The orphan of a work-house, the humble, half-starved drudge, to be cuffed and buffeted through the world, despised by all and pitied by none. Oliver cried, lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan left to the tender mercies of church wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder. CHAPTER II For the next eight or ten months Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the work-house authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the work-house authorities whether there was no female then domiciled in the house, who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The work-house authorities replied with humility that there was not. Upon this the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved that Oliver should be farmed, or in other words that he should be dispatched to a branch work-house some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor laws rolled about the floor all day without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female who received the culprits at and for the consideration of seven pence hapenny per small head per week. Seven pence hapenny's worth per week is a good round diet for a child. A great deal may be got for seven pence hapenny quite enough to overload its stomach and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience. She knew what was good for children, and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself, so she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provided for them, thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still and proving herself a very great experimental philosopher. Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it so well that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all. If he had not died four or twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system, for at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half smothered by accident, in any one of which cases the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this. Occasionally when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a washing, though the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of a rare occurrence in the farm, the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertenences were speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beetle, the former of whom had always opened the body and found nothing inside, which was very probable indeed, and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted, which was very self-devotional. Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beetle the day before to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to behold when they went, and what more would the people have? It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist's ninth birthday found him a pale, thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good, sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment, and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth birthday at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth birthday, and he was keeping it in the coal cellar, with a select party of two other young gentlemen, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble the beetle, striving to undo the wicket of the guarding gate. Good disgraces is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir, said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. Susan, take Oliver, and then two brats upstairs, and wash him directly. My heart alive, Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you surely! Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric. So, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but of beetles. "'Law, only think,' said Mrs. Mann, running out, for the three boys had been removed by this time. Only think of that, that I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside on account of them dear children. Walk in, sir, walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.' Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsy that might have softened the heart of a church warden, it by no means mollified the beetle. "'Do you think this respect or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,' inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, to keep the parish officers awaiting at your garden gate, where they come here upon parochial business with the parochial orphans, are you aware, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a parochial delegate and a stipendiary? I am sure Mr. Bumble that I was only a tellin' one or two of the dear children, as is so fond of you, that it was you who were coming,' replied Mrs. Mann, with great humility. Mr. Bumble had a great deal of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one and vindicated the other. He relaxed. "'Were then, Mrs. Mann?' he replied, in a calmer tone. "'It may be as you say. It may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say.' Mrs. Mann ushered the beetle into a small parlor with a brick floor, placed a seat for him, and officially deposited his cock-hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walkhead engendered, glanced complacently at the cock-hat and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beetles are but men, and Mr. Bumble smiled. "'Now don't you be offended at what I am going to say,' observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. "'You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of something, Mr. Bumble?' "'Not a drop, not a drop,' said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified but placid manner. "'I think you will,' said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal and the gesture that had accompanied it. "'Just a little drop with a little cold water and a lump of sugar,' Mr. Bumble coughed. "'Now just a little drop,' said Mrs. Mann persuasively. "'What is it?' inquired the beetle. "'Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infant stuffy when they ain't well, Mr. Bumble,' replied Mrs. Mann, as she opened a corner cupboard and took down a bottle and glass. "'It's gin. I'll not deceive you, Mr. B. It's gin.' "'Do you give the children daffy, Mrs. Mann,' inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing. "'Ah, bless him that I do, dear, as it is,' replied the nurse. "'I couldn't see him suffer before my very eyes, you know, sir.' "'No,' said Mr. Bumble, approvingly. "'No, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs. Mann.' Here she set down the glass. "'I shall take an early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann,' he drew it towards him. "'You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann?' he stirred the gin and water. "'I—I drink to your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann,' and he swallowed half of it.' "'And now about business,' said the beetle, taking out a leather-in-pocket-book. "'The child that was half-baptised, Oliver Twist, is nine year old to-day. "'Bless him,' interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her apron. "'And notwithstanding an offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound, notwithstanding the most superlative, and I may say supernatural exertions on the part of this parish,' said Bumble. "'We have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother's settlement, name, or condition. Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment, but added, after a moment's reflection, "'How comes he to have any name at all, then?' The beetle drew himself up with great pride, and said, "'I in-wented it!' "'You, Mr. Bumble, I, Mrs. Mann, we name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was a S, Swabble, I named him. This was a T, Twist, I named him. The next one comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready-made to the end of the alphabets, and all the way through again when we come to Zed. "'Why, you're quite a literary character, Sarah,' said Mrs. Mann. "'Well, well,' said the beetle, evidently gratified with the compliment. "'Perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.' He finished the gin and water, and added, "'Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there, so let me see him at once. I'll fetch him directly,' said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his face and hands removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was led into the room by his benevolent protectorous. "'Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,' said Mrs. Mann. Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beetle on the chair and the cocked hat on the table. "'Will you go along with me, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice. Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great readiness, when glancing upward he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beetle's chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his recollection. "'Will she go with me?' inquired poor Oliver. "'No, she can't,' replied Mr. Bumble, "'but she'll come and see you sometimes.' This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had sense enough to make a faint of feeling great regret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill usage are great assistance, if you want to cry, and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, lest he should seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With a slice of bread in his hand, and the little brown cloth perished cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr. Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted the gloom of his infant ears, and yet he burst into an agony of childish grief as the cottage gate closed after him. Wretched, as were the little companions in misery he was leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever known, and a sense of his loneliness in the great wide world sank into the child's heart for the first time. Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides, little Oliver firmly grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted behind him, inquiring at the end of every quarter of a mile whether they were nearly there. To these interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies for the temporary blandness which gin and water awakens in some bosom had by this time evaporated, and he was once again a beetle. Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of bread when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned, and telling him it was a board-night, informed him that the board had said he was to appear before it forthwith. Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was, Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter, however, for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head with his cane to wake him up and the nether on the back to make him lively, and bidding him to follow conducted him into a large whitewashed room where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round the table. At the top of the table seated in an armchair rather higher than the rest was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round red face. Bow to the board, said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes, and seeing no board but the table fortunately bowed to that. What's your name, boy? said the gentleman in the high chair. Oliver was frightened by the sight of so many gentlemen which made him tremble, and the beetle gave him another tap behind which made him cry. These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool, which was a capital way of raising his spirits and putting him quite at his ease. Boy! said the gentleman in the high chair. Listen to me. You know you're an orphan, I suppose. What's that, sir? inquired poor Oliver. The boy is a fool. I thought he was, said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Hash! said the gentleman who had spoken first. You know you've got no father or mother that you were brought up by the parish, don't you? Yes, sir, replied Oliver, weeping bitterly. What are you crying for, inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat, and to be sure it was very extraordinary. What could the boy be crying for? I hope you sing all prayers every night, said another gentleman in a gruff voice, and pray for the people who feed you and take care of you, like a Christian. Yes, sir, stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously right. It would have been very like a Christian, and a marvelously good Christian, too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed him and took care of him. But he hadn't, because nobody had taught him. Well, you have come here to be educated and taught a useful trade, said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair. So you'll begin to pick O'combe tomorrow morning at six o'clock, added the surly one in the white waistcoat. For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process of picking O'combe, Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beetle, and was then hurried away to a large ward where on a rough hard bed he sobbed himself to sleep. What a novel illustration of the tender laws of England they let the poppers go to sleep. Poor Oliver! He little thought as he lay sleeping in happy unconsciousness all around him that the board had that very day arrived at a decision which would exercise the most material influence over all his future fortunes. But they had, and this was it. The members of the board were very sage, deep philosophical men, and when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse they found out at once what ordinary folk would never have discovered. The poor people liked it. It was a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes, a tavern where there was nothing to pay, a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round, a brick and mortar Elysium, where it was all play and no work. Ho-ho! said the board, looking very knowing. We are the fellows who set this to rights. We'll stop it all in no time. So they established the rule that all poor people should have the alternative, for they would compel nobody, not they, of being starved by a gradual process in the house or by a quick one out of it. With this few they contracted with the waterworks to lay on an unlimited supply of water and with a corn factor to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal and issued three meals of thin gruel a day with an onion twice a week and half a roll of sundaes. They made a great many other wise and humane regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary to repeat, kindly undertook to divorce poor married people in consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctor's Commons, and instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had there to foredone, took his family away from him and made him a bachelor. There is no saying how many applicants for relief under these last two heads might have started up in all classes of society if it had not been coupled with the workhouse, but the board were long-hitted men and had provided for this difficulty. The relief was inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel, and that frightened people. For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed the system was in full operation. It was rather expensive at first in consequence of the increase in the undertaker's bill and the necessity of taking in the clothes of all the poppers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms after a week or two's gruel. But the number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as the poppers, and the board were in ecstasies. The room in which the boys were fed was a large stone hall, with a copper at one end, out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, had assisted by one or two women ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of this festive composition each boy had one poringer and no more, except on occasions of great public rejoicing when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again, and when they had performed this operation, which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls, they would sit staring at the copper with such eager eyes as if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was composed, employing themselves meanwhile in sucking their fingers most assiduously with the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months. At last they got so voracious and wild with hunger that one boy, who was tall for his age, and had been used to that sort of thing, for his father had kept a small cook-shop, hinted darkly to his companions that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem he was afraid he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next to him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye, and they implicitly believed him. A council was held, lots were cast, who should walk up to the master after supper that evening and ask for more, and it fell to Oliver Twist. The evening arrived. The boys took their places. The master in his cook's uniform stationed himself at the copper, his proper assistants ranged themselves behind him, the gruel was served out, and a long grace was said over the short collins. The gruel disappeared. The boys whispered each other and winked at Oliver, while his next neighbors nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger and reckless with misery. He rose from the table, and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity, please, sir, I want some more. The master was a fat, healthy man, but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralyzed with wonder, the boys with fear. What! said the master at length in a faint voice. Please, sir, replied Oliver, I want some more. The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with his ladle, pinioned him in his arm, and shrieked aloud for the beetle. The board were sitting in solemn conclave when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair said, Mr. Limpkins, I beg your pardon, sir. Oliver Twist has asked for more. There was a general start. Horror was to pick that at every countenance. For more, said Mr. Limpkins, compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary? He did, sir, replied Bumble. The boy will be hung, said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. I know that boy will be hung. Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement, and a bill was next morning posted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds, and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling. I was never more convinced of anything in my life, said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning. I never was more convinced of anything in my life than I am that that boy will come to be hung. As I purposed to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative, supposing it to possess any at all, if I venture to hint just yet whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no. End of Chapter 2 Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens, Chapter 3 relates how Oliver Twist was very near getting a place which would not have been a sinecure. For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the Board. It appears at first sight not unreasonable to suppose that if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that Sage's individual prophetic character once and for ever by tying one end of his pocket-hackage shift to a hook in the wall and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle, namely that pocket-hackage shifts being decided articles of luxury had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of poppers by the express order of the Board in council assembled, solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals, there was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day, and when the long dismal night came on spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness and crouching in the corner tried to sleep, ever and anon waking with a start and tremble and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of the system that during the period of his solitary incarceration Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump in a stone-yard in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning in example. And so, far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to and console his mind with a general supplication of the boys containing a special clause therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist, whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufacturing of the very devil himself. It chanced, one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the high street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount, and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cuddling his brains in his donkey when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate. "'Woe!' said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction, wondering probably whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden, so without noticing the word of command he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce implication on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes, and running after him bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench by way of a gentle reminder that he was not his own master, and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the boardroom. Having witnessed a little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled too, as he perused the document, for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for, and as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end, and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "'It's your boy, sir, what the parish wants to prentice,' said Mr. Gamfield. "'Aye, my man,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile, "'what of him?' "'If the parish would like him to learn a right pleasant trade, at a good, spectable, chimby, sweepin' business,' said Mr. Gamfield, "'I want some prentice, and I am ready to take him.' "'Walk in,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield, having lingered behind to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "'It's a nasty trade,' said Mr. Limkin, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "'Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,' said another gentleman. "'That's a cause they damp the straw, for they littered in the chimney to make him come down again,' said Gamfield. "'That's all smoke, and no blaze. Whereas smoke ain't of no use at all in makin' a boy come down, for it only sends him to sleep. That's what he likes.' "'Boys is very obstinate and very lazy. Gentlemen, and there's nothing like a good hot place to make him come down with a run. It's humane, too, gentlemen, or cause, even if they're stuck in the chimney, roasting their feet makes them struggle to hextricate their selves.' The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation, but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limkin's. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone that the words Saving of Expenditure, looked well in the accounts, have a printed report published were alone audible. These only chance to be heard, indeed, on account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased, and the members of the board having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limkin said, "'We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it.' "'Not at all,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "'Decidedly not,' added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board head, perhaps in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads at this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business if they had, but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands and walked slowly from the table. "'So you won't let me have them, gentlemen,' said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "'No,' replied Mr. Limkin's. "'At least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered.' Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as with a quick step he returned to the table and said, "'What do you give, gentlemen? Come. Don't be too hard on a poor man. What do you give?' "'I should say three pound ten,' was pretty,' said Mr. Limkin's. "'Ten shillings too much,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "'Come,' said Gamfield. "'Say four pound, gentlemen. Say four pound, and you've got rid of him for good at all. There.' "'Three pound ten,' repeated Mr. Limkin's, firmly. "'Come. I'll split the difference, gentlemen,' urged Gamfield. "'Three pound fifteen.' "'Not a farthing more,' was the firm reply of Mr. Limkin's. "'You're desperate hard upon me, gentlemen,' said Gamfield, wavering. "'Poo, poo, nonsense,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "'He'd be cheap with nothing at all as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow. He's just the boy for you. He wants the stick now and then. It'll do him good. And his bored needn't come very expensive for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha-ha-ha!' Mr. Gamfield gave an arch-look at the faces round the table, and observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate for signature and approval that very afternoon. In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight Oliver began to cry very pitiously, thinking not unnaturally that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way. Don't make your eyes red, Oliver. But eat your food and be thankful," said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. You are going to be made apprentice of, Oliver. Apprentice, sir, said the child, trembling. Yes, Oliver, said Mr. Bumble, the kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own, are going to apprentice you and set you up in life and make a man of you, although the expense to the parish is three-pound ten—three-pound ten, Oliver, seventy shillings, one hundred and forty-six pence, and all for a knotty orphan which nobody can love. As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face and he sobbed bitterly. Come, said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratified to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced. Come, Oliver, wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel, as a very foolish action, Oliver, it certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already. On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do would be to look very happy and say when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprentice that he should like it very much indeed, both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey. The rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint that if he failed in either particular there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office he was shut up in a little room by himself and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there until he came back to fetch him. There the boy remained with a palpitating heart for half an hour, at the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head unadorned with the cocked hat and settled out, Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman. As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look and added in a low voice, Mind what I told you, you young rascal! Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address, but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon by leading him at once into an adjoining room, the door of which was open. It was a large room with a great window. Behind a desk sat two old gentlemen with powdered heads, one of whom was reading the newspaper while the other was perusing with the aid of a pair of tortoise shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which laid before him. Mr. Lincolns was standing in front of the desk on one side and Mr. Gamfield with a partially washed face on the other, while two or three bluff-looking men in top boots were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off over a little piece of parchment, and there was a short pause after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk. This is the boy, your worship, said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve, whereupon the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. Oh, is this the boy, said the old gentleman. This is him, sir, replied Mr. Bumble, bow to the magistrate, my dear. Oliver roused himself and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrate's powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thence forth on that account. Well, said the old gentleman, I suppose he's fond of chimney sweeping. He dotes on it, your worship, replied Bumble, giving Oliver a sly pinch to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. And he will be a sweep, will he, inquired the old gentleman. If we was to bind him to any other trade tomorrow, he'd run away simultaneously, your worship, replied Bumble. And this man, that's to be his master, you sir, you'll treat him well and feed him and do all that sort of thing, will you, said the old gentleman. When I said I will, I means I will, replied Mr. Gamfield, doggedly. He had a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man, said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular, stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half-blind and half-childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. I hope I am, sir, said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. I have no doubt you are, my friend, replied the old gentleman, fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose and looking about him for the ink-stand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the ink-stand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But as a chance to be immediately under his nose, it followed as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it without finding it, and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist, who, despite all the admiratory looks and pinches of bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master with a mingled expression of horror and fear too palpable to be mistaken even by a half-blind magistrate. The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limpkins, who attempted to take stuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. My boy, said the old gentleman, you look pale and alarmed, what is the matter? Stand a little away from him, Beedle, said the other magistrate, laying aside the paper and leaning forward with an expression of interest. Now, boy, tell us what's the matter, don't be afraid. Oliver fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room, that they would starve him, beat him, kill him if they please, rather than send him away with that dreadful man. Well, said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity, well, of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare facetest. Hold your tongue, Beedle, said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. I beg your worship's pardon, said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having her to write. Did your worship speak to me? Yes, hold your tongue. Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A Beedle ordered to hold his tongue. A moral revolution. The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion. He nodded significantly. We refused to sanction these indentures, said the old gentleman, tossing aside the peace of parchment as he spoke. I hope—stabbered Mr. Limpkins—I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct on the unsupported testimony of a child. The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter, said the second old gentleman sharply. Take the boy back to the work-house, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it. That same evening the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery and said he wished he might come to good, whereupon Mr. Gamfield replied that he wished he might come to him, which, although he agreed with the beetle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again too let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. End of Chapter 3 Oliver Twist, Chapter 4 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, reading by Brad Philippone. Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens, Chapter 4 Oliver, being offered another place, makes his first entry into public life. In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in invitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him, the probability being that the skipper would flog him to death in a playful mood some day after dinner or would knock his brains out with an iron bar, both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentlemen of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared, so they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver, effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been dispatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some Captain or other who wanted a cabin boy without any friends, and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission when he encountered at the gate no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall, gaunt, large, jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocacity. His step was elastic, and his face betokered inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble and shook him cordially by the hand. I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble, said the undertaker. You'll make a fortune, Mr. Sowerberry, said the beetle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker, which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry, repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder in a friendly manner with his cane. Think so, said the undertaker, in a tone which half admitted at half dispute at the probability of the event. The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble. So are the coffins, replied the beetle, with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this, as of course he ought to be, and laughed a long time without cessation. Well, well, Mr. Bumble, he said at length. There's no denying that since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shadow than they used to be, but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble, well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir, and all the iron handles come by canal from Birmingham. Well, well, said Mr. Bumble, every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable. Of course, of course, replied the undertaker, and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long run, you'll see. Just so, said Mr. Bumble, though I must say, continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beetle had interrupted, though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage, which is that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off and have paid better rates for many years are the first to sink when they come into the house, and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hold in one's profits, especially when one has a family to provide for, sir. As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man, and as Mr. Bumble felt it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish, the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject, Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. By the by, said Mr. Bumble, you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A parochial apprentice, who is at present a dead weight, a mill-stove, as I may say, round the parochial throat. Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms. As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct wraps upon the words five pounds, which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "'Gad so,' said the undertaker, taking Mr. Bumble by the guilt-edge lapel of his official coat. That's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know, dear me, what a very elegant button that is, Mr. Bumble, I never noticed it before. Yes, I think it rather pretty,' said the beetle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. The dye is the same as the parochial seal, the good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on New Year's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman who died in a doorway at midnight. "'I recollect,' said the undertaker. The jury brought it in. Died from exposure to the cold and one to the common necessaries of life. Didn't they?' Mr. Bumble nodded. "'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the undertaker, by adding some words to the effect that if the relieving officer had a tache, foolery interposed the beetle. If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do.' "'Very true,' said the undertaker. They would indeed.' "'Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly as was his want when working into a passion. "'Juries is ineducated, vulgar, groveling wretches. So they are,' said the undertaker. "'They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about them than that,' said the beetle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "'No more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker. "'I despise them,' said the beetle, growing very red in the face. So do I,' rejoined the undertaker. "'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort in the house for a week or two,' said the beetle. "'The rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for them.' "'Let them alone,' fit that,' replied the undertaker, so saying he smiled approvingly to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr. Bumble lifted off his cocked hat, took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown, wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered, fixed the cock hat on again, and turning to the undertaker said in a calmer voice. "'Well, about the boy,' replied the undertaker. "'Why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates.' "'Em,' said Mr. Bumble. "'Well,' replied the undertaker. "'I was thinking that if I pay so much towards him, I've a right to get as much out of him as I can, Mr. Bumble, and so I think I'll take the boy myself.' Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm and led him into the building. Mr. Sourberry was closeted with the board for five minutes, and it was a range that Oliver should go to him that evening upon liking, a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find upon a short trial that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years to do what he likes with. When little Oliver was taken before the gentleman that evening, and informed that he was to go that night as General House lad to a coffin-makers, and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to see there to be drowned or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the board of all people in the world should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling in the part of anybody, they were rather out in this particular instance. The simple fact was that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much, and was in a fair way of being reduced for life to a state of brutal stupidity and sulleness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination in perfect silence, and having had his luggage put into his hand, which was not very difficult to carry in as much as it was all composed within the limits of a brown paper parcel about half a foot square by three inches deep, he pulled his cap over his eyes, and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat-cuff was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along without notice or remark, for the beetle carried his head very erect as a beetle always should, and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open and disclosed to a great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-bridges. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master, which he accordingly did with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. Oliver, said Mr. Bumble, Yes, sir, replied Oliver in a low, tremulous voice, Pull that cap off your eyes and hold up your head, sir. Although Oliver did as he was desired at once, and passed the back of his unoccupied hand bristly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor as Mr. Bumble gaze sternly upon him it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing the other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. Well, exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity, well, of all the ungratefulest and worst-exposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, You are the— No, no, sir, sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane. No, no, sir, I will be good indeed, indeed, indeed I will, sir. I am a very little boy, sir, and it is so— So— So what, inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement? So lonely, sir, so very lonely, cried the child. Everybody hates me. Oh, sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me. The child beat his hand upon his heart and looked at his companion's face with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's pitious and helpless look with some astonishment for a few seconds, hemmed three or four times in a husky manner, and after muttering something about that troublesome cough, bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then, once more, taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his daybook by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle when Mr. Bumble entered. Aha! said the undertaker, looking up from the book and pausing in the middle of a word. Is that you, Bumble? No one else, Mr. Sourberry, replied the beetle. Here, I've brought the boy. Oliver made a bow. Oh, that's the boy, is it? said the undertaker, raising the candle above his head to get a better view of Oliver. Mrs. Sourberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear? Mrs. Sourberry emerged from a little room behind the shop and presented the form of a short, then-squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. My dear, said Mr. Sourberry, deferentially, this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of, Oliver bowed again. Dear me, said the undertaker's wife, he's very small. Why, he is rather small, replied Mr. Bumble, looking at Oliver as if it were his fault he was no bigger. He is small, there's no denying it, but he'll grow, Mrs. Sourberry, he'll grow. Ah, I dare say he will, replied the lady pettishly, on our victuals, on our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I, for they always cost more to keep than their worth. However, men always think they know best. There, get downstairs, little bag of bones. With this the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark, forming the anti-room to the coal cellar, and denominated kitchen, whereon set a slatterly girl in shoes down at heel, and blue-wursted stockings very much out of repair. Here, Charlotte, said Mr. Sourberry, who had followed Oliver down, give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without him. I dare say the boy isn't too daity to eat him, are you, boy? Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative, and a plateful of coarse, broken victuals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turned to gall within him, whose blood as ice, whose heart as iron, could have seen Oliver twist clutching at the dirty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better, and that would be to see the philosopher making the same sort of meal himself with the same relish. Well, said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper, which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite. Have you done? There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative. Then come with me, said Mrs. Sowerberry, taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs. Your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose, but it doesn't matter whether you do or you don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. Come, don't keep me here all night. Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress. End of Chapter 4 Oliver Twist, Chapter 5. Oliver mingles with new associates, going to a funeral for the first time he forms an unfavorable notion of his master's business. Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp down on a workman's bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black trestles which stood in the middle of the shop looked so gloomy and deathlike that a cold tremble came over him every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object, from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged in regular array a long row of elm-boards cut in the same shape, looking in the dim light like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their britches' pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails and shreds of black cloth lay scattered on the floor, and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neck-cloths on duty at a large private door with a hearse drawn by four black steeds approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust looked like a grave. Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place, and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind. The absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart. But his heart was heavy notwithstanding, and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be laying in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep. Oliver was awakened in the morning by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop door, which before he could huddle on his clothes was repeated in an angry and impetuous manner about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted and the voice began, "'Open the door, will ye?' cried the voice, which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door. "'I will directly, sir,' replied Oliver, undoing the chain and turning the key. "'I'll suppose ye're the new boy, ain't ye?' said the voice through the key-hole. "'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver. "'How old are ye?' inquired the voice. "'Ten, sir,' replied Oliver. "'Then I'll walk ye when I get in,' said the voice. "'You just see that I don't. That's all. My work has spread.' Having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle. Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded Bear's reference to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge most honorably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand and opened the door. For a second or two Oliver glanced up the street and down the street, and over the way, impressed with the belief that the unknown who had addressed him through the key-hole had walked a few paces off to warm himself, for nobody did he see but a big charity boy sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter which he cut into wedges the size of his mouth with a clasp-knife and then consumed with great dexterity. "'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver at length, seeing that no other visitor made his appearance. "'Did you knock?' "'I kicked,' replied the charity boy. "'Did you want a coffin, sir?' inquired Oliver innocently. "'At this the charity boy looked monstrous fierce, and said that Oliver would want one before long if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way. "'You don't know who I am, I suppose, work-house?' said the charity boy in continuation, descending from the top of the post, meanwhile with edifying gravity. Rosa rejoined Oliver. "'Oh, Mr. Noah Claypole,' said the charity boy, "'and you're under me. Take down the shutters, you idle young ruffian!' With this Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air which did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth of lumbering, make, and heavy countenance to look dignified under any circumstances, but it is more especially so when super-added to these personal attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls. Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah, who having consoled him with the assurance that he'd catch it, condescended to help him. Mr. Sourberry came down soon after. Immediately afterwards Mrs. Sourberry appeared. Oliver, having caught it in fulfillment of Noah's prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast. "'Come near the fire, Noah,' said Charlotte. "'I saved a nice little bit of bacon for you from master's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mr. Noah's back, and take them bits that I've put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There's your tea. Take it away to that box and drink it there, and make haste, for they'll want you to mine the shop, do you hear?' "'Do you hear, workers?' said Noah Claypole. "'Lord Noah,' said Charlotte, what a rum creature you are! Why don't you let the boy alone?' "'Let him alone,' said Noah. "'Why, everybody lets him alone enough for the matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own pretty well. Eh, Charlotte?' "'Oh, you queer soul,' said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh in which she was joined by Noah, after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially reserved for him. Noah was a charity boy, but not a work-house orphan. No chance child was he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents, who lived hard by. His mother, being a washer-woman, and his father, a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of tuppence apenny, and an unstatable fraction. The shop boys in the neighborhood had long been in the habit of branding Noah in the public streets with the ignominious epithets of leathers, charity, and the like, and Noah had borne them without reply. But now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interests. This affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be, and how impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest Lord and the dirtiest charity boy. Oliver had been sojourning at the undertakers some three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry, the shop being shut up, were taking their supper in the little back parlor, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his wife, said, My dear, he was going to say more, but Mrs. Sowerberry, looking up with a peculiarly unpropechious aspect, he stopped short. Well, said Mrs. Sowerberry sharply, Nothing, my dear, nothing, said Mr. Sowerberry, Ah, you brute, said Mrs. Sowerberry. Not at all, my dear, said Mr. Sowerberry, humbly. I thought you didn't want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say, Oh, don't tell me what you were going to say, Interpose, Mrs. Sowerberry. I am nobody. Don't consult me, pray. I don't want to intrude upon your secrets. As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh which threatened violent consequences. But my dear, said Sowerberry, I want to ask your advice. No, no, don't ask mine, replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner, ask somebody else's. Here there was another hysterical laugh which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special favor, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short duration the permission was most graciously conceded. It's only about young twist, my dear, said Mr. Sowerberry, a very good-looking boy that, my dear. He need be, for he eats enough, observed the lady. There's an expression of the melancholy in his face, my dear, resumed Mr. Sowerberry, which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love. Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it, and without allowing time for any observation on the good lady's part, proceeded, I don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children's practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it. It would have a superb effect. Mrs. Sowerberry, who has a great deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of this idea, but as it would have been comprising her dignity to have said so under existing circumstances, she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itself to her husband's mind before. Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed this as an acquiescence in his proposition. It was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade, and with this view that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of his services being required. The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop, and supporting his cane against the counter drew forth his large leather-in-pocket-book, from which he selected a small scrap of paper which he handed over to Sowerberry. Ah-ha! said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance. In order for a coffin, eh? For a coffin first, and a parochial funeral afterwards, replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leather-in-pocket-book, which like himself was very corpulent. Baiton, said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble, I never heard the name before. Bumble shook his head as he replied. Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry, very obstinate, proud too, I'm afraid, sir. Proud, eh? exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. Come! That's too much. Oh! it's sickening! replied the beetle. Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry! So it is, acquiesce the undertaker. We only heard the family the night before last, said the beetle, and we shouldn't have known anything about them then, only a woman who lodges in the same house made an application to the parochial committee for them to send the parochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner, but his apprentice, which is a very clever lad, sent him some medicine in a blacking-bottle off hand. Ah! there's Propness, said the undertaker. Propness indeed, replied the beetle. But what's the consequence? What's the ungrateful behavior of these rebels, sir? Why the husband sends back word that the medicine won't suit his wife's complaint, and so she shan't take it. Says she shan't take it, sir. Good strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish laborers and a coal-heaver only a week before. Sent him for nothing with a blacking-bottle in, and he sends back word that she shan't take it, sir. As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he struck the counters sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation. Well, said the undertaker, I never did—never did, sir, ejaculated the beetle. No, nor—nobody never did. But now she's dead, we've got to bury her, and that's the direction, and the sooner it's done the better. Thus sang Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial excitement, and flounced out of the shop. Wray! He was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you, said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beetle as he strode down the street. Yes, sir, replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight during the interview, and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble's voice. He needn't have taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble's glance, however, for that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcome. Well, said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, the sooner this job is done the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me. Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission. They walked on for some time through the most crowded and densely inhabited part of the town, and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squatted looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop fronts, but these were fast clothes and mouldering away, only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses, which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street by huge beams of wood reared against the walls and firmly planted in the road, but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the road-boards which supplied the place of door and window were wrenched from their positions to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy, the very rats which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness were hideous with famine. There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped, so groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid, the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs, stumbling against the door on the landing he wrapped at it with his knuckles. It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in. Oliver followed him. There was no fire in the room, but a man was crouching mechanically over the empty stove. An old woman too had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner, and in a small recess opposite the door there lay upon the ground something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes towards the place and crept in voluntarily closer to his master, for though it was covered up the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale, his hair and beard were grisly, his eyes were bloodshot, the old woman's face was wrinkled, her two remaining teeth protruded over her underlip, and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside. "'Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, starting fiercely up as the undertaker approached the recess. Keep back! Damn you! Keep back if you have a life to lose!' "'Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. Nonsense! I tell you,' said the man, clenching his hands and stamping furiously on the floor. "'I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her, not eat her. She is so worn away.' The undertaker offered no reply to this raving, but produced a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. "'Ah!' said the man, bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman. "'Neel down, kneel down, kneel round her every one of you when mark my words. I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was till the fever came upon her, and her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle. She died in the dark, in the dark. She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets, and they sent me to prison. When I came back she was dying, and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it, they starved her. He twined his hands and his hair, and with a loud scream rolled groveling upon the floor, his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips. The terrified children cried bitterly, but the old woman who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloose on the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground, she taught her towards the undertaker. She was my daughter, said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse, and speaking with an idiotic lair, more ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. Lord, Lord, well it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now when she lying there so cold and stiff, Lord, Lord, to think of it. It's as good as a play, as good as a play! As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away. Stop, stop! said the old woman in a loud whisper. Will she be buried to-morrow or next day or to-night? I laid her out, and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak, a good warm one, for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go. Never mind. Send some bread. Only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?" She said, eagerly, catching at the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door. Yes, yes, said the undertaker, of course, anything you like. He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp, and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away. The next day, the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quarter loaf and a piece of cheese, left with him by Mr. Bumble himself, Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode, where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man, and the bear coffin having been screwed down was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street. Now you must put your best leg forward, old lady," whispered Sower Berry in the old woman's ear. We are rather late, and it won't do to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like. Thus directed the bearers trotted on under their light burden, and the two mourners kept as near them as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sower Berry walked at a good smart pace in front, and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his masters, ran by the side. There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sower Berry had anticipated, however, for when they reached the obscure corner of the church shard in which the nettles grew, where the perished graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived. And the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so before he came. So they put the bear on the brink of the grave, and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys, whom the spectacle had attracted into the church shard, played a noisy game at height and seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sower Berry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him and read the paper. At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble and Sower Berry and the clerk were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards the clergyman appeared, putting on his surplus as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two to keep up appearances, and the reverent gentleman having read as much of the burial services could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplus to the clerk, and walked away again. "'Now be, o' Sower Berry, to the grave-digger, fill up!' It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger, shoveled in the earth, stamped it loosely down with his feet, shouldered his spade, and walked off, followed by the boys, whom murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon. "'Come, my good fellow,' said Bumble, tapping the man on the back, "'they want to shut up the yard.' The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave-side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces, and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak, which the undertaker had taken off, to pay him any attention. So they threw a can of cold water over him, and when he came to, saw him safely out of the church-yard, locked the gate and departed on their different ways. "'Well, Oliver,' said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "'how did you like it?' "'Pretty well, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "'Not very much, sir.' "'Ah, you get used to it in time, Oliver,' said Sowerberry. "'Nothing when you are used to it, my boy.' Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question, and walked back to the shop, thinking over all he had seen and heard. End of Chapter 5. Oliver Twist, Chapter 6 Oliver, being goaded by the taunts of Noah, rouses into action, and rather astonishes him. The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season, just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looked up, and in the course of a few weeks Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence, and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions, too, in order that he might acquire the equanimity of demeanor and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance, when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be, quite cheerful and contented, conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives again put on weeds for their husbands as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment recovered almost as soon as they reached home and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see, and Oliver beheld it with great admiration. That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence. But I 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. Sourberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sourberry 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 unimportant 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 tantalizing young Oliver twist. And 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 wanted to be funny he got rather personal. "'Workers,' said Noah, "'how's your mother?' "'She's dead,' replied Oliver. "'Don't you say anything about her to me?' Oliver's color rose as he said this. He breathed quickly, and it was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. After this impression he returned to the charge. "'Won't 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.' "'Told a rollo rightful Larry,' said Noah, as a tear rolled out Oliver's cheek. "'What sets you astiflin' now?' "'Not you,' Oliver replied sharply. "'There. That's enough. "'Don't say anything more to me about her, you better not.' "'Better not,' exclaimed Noah. "'Well, better not, Workers. Don't be imputed. Your mother, too. She was a nice unshe was, oh, law. And here Noah nodded his head expressively, and curled up as much of his small red nose as musketer action could collect together for the occasion. "'You know, Workers,' continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity, of all tones the most annoying, "'You know, Workers, it can't be helped now. And, of course, you couldn't help it then, and I'm very sorry for it, and I'm sure we all are, and I pity you very much. But you must know, Workers, your mother was a regular right-down baton.' "'What did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly. "'A regular right-down baton, Workers,' replied Noah, coldly. And it's a great deal better, Workers, that she die when she did, or else she'd have been hard laboring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung. Which is more likely than either, isn't it?' Crimson with fury Oliver started up, overthrew the chair and table, seized Noah by the throat, shook him in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head, and, collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground. A minute ago the boyhead looked the quiet child, mild, dejected the creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last. The cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast-heave, his attitude was erect, his eye bright and vivid, his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay croaching at his feet, and defied him with an energy he had never known before. "'He'll murder me,' blubbered Noah. "'Shall it, Mrs? "'Here's the new boy, a murderer of me. Help, help! All of us gone mad. Charlotte!' Noah's shouts were responded to by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry, the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life to come further down. "'Oh, you little wretch!' screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training. "'Oh, you little ungrateful, murderous, horrid villain!' And between every syllable Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might, accompanying it with a scream for the benefit of society. Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one, but lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen and assisted to hold him with one hand while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs Noah rose from the ground and pummeled him behind. This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all weary toad and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted into the dust cellar, and there locked him up. This being done Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair and burst into tears. "'Bless her, she's going off,' said Charlotte. "'A glass of water, no idea, make haste!' "'Oh, Charlotte,' said Mrs. Sowerberry, speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. "'Oh, Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!' "'Aye, mercy indeed, ma'am,' was the reply. "'I only hope this will teach Masha not to have any more of these dreadful creatures that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah, he was all but killed, ma'am, when I come in. Poor fellows,' said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity boy. Noah, whose top waistcoat button must have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the insides of his wrists, while this commissuration was bestowed upon him, and performed some effecting tears and sniffs. "'What's to be done?' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "'Your master's not at home, there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes.' Oliver's vigorous plungers against the bit of timbering question rendered this occurrence highly probable. "'Dear, dear, I don't know, ma'am,' said Charlotte, "'unless we send for the police officers.' "'Or the milling-towery,' suggested Mr. Claypool. "'No, no,' said Mrs. Sowerberry, be thinking herself of Oliver's old friend. "'Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly and not to lose a minute. Never mind your cap. Make haste. Hold a knife to that black eye as you run along. It'll keep the swelling down. Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed, and very much astonished the people who were out walking to see a charity-boy tearing through the street's pale mill, with no cap on his head, and a class-knife at his eye.' End of CHAPTER VI. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Having rested here for a minute or so to collect a good burst of sobs, and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket, and presented such a rueful face to the aged popper who opened it that even he who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times started back in astonishment. "'Why, what's the matter with the boy?' said the old popper. "'Mr. Bumble, Mr. Bumble,' cried Noah, with well-affected dismay, and in tone so loud and agitated that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beetle, acting upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession and forgetfulness of personal dignity. "'Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir,' said Noah, "'All of us, sir. All of us has what, what?' interposed Mr. Bumble with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "'Not run away. He hasn't run away, has he, Noah?' "'No, sir, no, not run away, sir, but he's turnwishes,' replied Noah. "'He tried to murder me, sir, and then he tried to murder Charlotte, and then misses. Oh, what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!' And here Noah writhe and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions, thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutus torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralyzed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before, and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentation than ever, rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice and rouse the indignation of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted, for he had not walked three paces when he turned angrily round and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated an involuntary process. "'It's a poor boy from the free school, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble, "'who has been nearly murdered, all but murdered, sir, by young twist. By Jove exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. I knew it. I felt a strange presentiment from the very first that that audacious young savage would come to be hung. He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,' said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. "'And his misses,' interposed Mr. Claypole. "'And his master too, I think you said, Noah,' added Mr. Bumble. "'No, he's out, or he would have murdered him,' replied Noah. He said he wanted to—' "'Ah, said he wanted to, did he, my boy,' inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "'Yes, sir,' replied Noah. "'And, please, sir, missus wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there directly and flog him, because master's out.' "'Certainly, my boy, certainly,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, smiling benignly and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "'You're a good boy, a very good boy, here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sourberry's with your cane and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble. "'No, I will not,' replied the beetle, and the cocked hat and cane, having been by this time adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sourberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick with undiminished vigor at the cellar door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sourberry and Charlotte were of so startling a nature that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick on the outside by way of prelude, and then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, and said, in a deep and impressive tone, "'Oliver!' "'Come, you let me out,' replied Oliver, from the inside. "'Do you know this hair-voice, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble. "'Yes,' replied Oliver. "'Ain't you afraid of it, sir? "'Ain't you a trembling while I speak, sir?' said Mr. Bumble. "'No,' replied Oliver boldly. An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole, drew himself up to his full height, and looked from one to another of the three bystanders in mute astonishment. "'Oh, you know Mr. Bumble. He must be mad,' said Mrs. Sourberry. "'No, boy, in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.' "'It's not madness, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. "'It's meat.' "'What?' exclaimed Mrs. Sourberry. "'Meet, ma'am. "'Meet!' replied Bumble, with stirred emphasis. "'You've overfed him, ma'am. You raised an artificial soul and spirited him, ma'am, unbecoming a person of his condition. As the board, Mrs. Sourberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have poppers to do with soul or spirit? It's quite enough that we let him have live bodies. If you have kept the boy on gruel, madam, this would never have happened.' "'Dear, dear,' ejaculated Mrs. Sourberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling. This comes of being liberal. The liberality of Mrs. Sourberry to Oliver had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat, so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntary remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation, of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent in thought, word, and deed. "'Ah!' said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again. "'The only thing that can be done now that I know of is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down, and then to take him out and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family, excitable natures, Mrs. Sourberry. Both the nurse and doctor said that that mother of his made her way here against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman weeks before. At this point, of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some illusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sourberry returned at this juncture. 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 at 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, when he was pulled out of his prison he scowled boldly on Noah and looked quite undismayed. Now, you're a nice young fellow, ain't you, said Sourberry, giving Oliver a shake and a box on the ire? He called my mother names, replied Oliver. Well, and what if he did you little ungrateful wretch, said Mrs. Sourberry? She deserved what he said and worse. She didn't, said Oliver. She did, said Mrs. Sourberry. It's a lie, said Oliver. Mr. Sourberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sourberry 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 recycle 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 drumming which satisfied even Mrs. Sourberry herself and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread, and at night Mrs. Sourberry, after making remarks outside the door by no means complementary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room and amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt. He had borne the lash without a cry, for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a streak to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor, and hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as God sent for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have caused to pour out before him. For a long time Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door and looked abroad. It was a cold dark night. The stars seemed to the boy's eyes farther from the earth that he had ever seen them before. There was no wind, and the somber shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground looked seprocal and deathlike from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had sat himself down upon a bench to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around, one moment's pause of hesitation, he had closed it behind him and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain wither to fly. He remembered to have seen the wagons as they went out toiling up the hill. He took the same route, and arriving at a footpath across the fields which he knew after some distance led out into the road, struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath Oliver well remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble when he first carried him to the work-host from the farm. His way laid directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this, and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way, though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen, so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of his inmates staring at that early hour. Oliver stopped and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds. As he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him before he went, for though younger than himself he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten and starved and shot up together many and many a time. "'Hush, Dick,' said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate and thrushed his thin arm between the rails to greet him. Is any one up?' "'Nobody but me,' replied the child. "'You mustn't say you saw me, Dick,' said Oliver. "'I am running away. They beat an ill-use-me, Dick, and I am going to seek my fortune some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!' I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,' replied the child, with a faint smile. "'I am very glad to see you, dear, but don't stop. Don't stop.' "'Yes, yes, I will, to say good-bye to you,' replied Oliver. "'I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall. You will be well and happy.' "'I hope so,' replied the child. "'After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of heaven and angels and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. "'Kiss me,' said the child, climbing up the low gate and flinging his little arms round Oliver's neck. "'Good-bye, dear. God bless you!' The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head, and through the struggles and sufferings and troubles and changes of his afterlife he never once forgot it."