 CHAPTER 1 OF OLLIVER TWIST Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it would be proven 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. Inasmuch 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, being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country. Although I'm 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 inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration. A troublesome practice, but one which customers rendered necessary to our easy existence, and for some time he laid gasping on a little flop 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 have most inevitably and intuitively have been killed in no time. There being nobody by however but a pauper old woman who was rendered rather misty by an unwanted allowance of beer and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract, Oliver in 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 possessing that very useful appendage, a voice for much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carefully flung over the iron bedstead rustled, but 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 rum alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose and vows into the bed's head, said with more kindness that might have been expected of him. Oh, you must not talk about dying yet. Lord bless her dear art no one to pose the nurse. She hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evidence satisfaction. Lord bless her dear art when she has lived as long as I have so and had 13 children of her own and all of them dead except two. And them in the workers with me she no better than to take on in that way. Bless her dear art. Think what it is to be a mother. There's a dear young lamb do. Apparently this consultory perspective of a mother's prospects, filed in producing its due effect, the patient shook her head, stretch out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead, passed her hands over her face, gazed wildly around, shuddered fell back and died. They chafed 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. Thing, dummy said the surgeon at last. So it is dear so it is said the nurse picking up the cork of green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. Poor dear. You needn't mind sending up to me if the child cries, the 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 bedside 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, body overseers order. She was found lying in the street. She'd walked some distance for her shoes were worn to pieces. Where she come from, 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. 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. What an excellent example of the power of dress young Oliver Twist was, wrapped in the blanket, which I think the two formed is 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 in 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 parish child, the orphan of a workhouse, the humble half starved drudge to be cuffed and buffeted through the world, despised by all and pitted by none. Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder. End of chapter one, chapter two of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter two, Treats of Oliver Twist's Growth, Education and Board. For the next eight or 10 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 workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities acquired with dignity of the workhouse 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 workhouse authorities replied with humility that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and who mainly resolved that Oliver should be farmed. In other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch workhouse some three miles off, where 20 or 30 other juvenile offenders against the poor laws rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience too much food or too much clothing. Under the parental superintendents of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of seven pence hate me per small head per week. The seven pence hate me's worth per week is a good round diet for a child. A great deal may be got for seven pence hate me quite enough to overload his stomach and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience. She knew what was good for children. He had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own youth, who consigned the rising parochial generation to even shorter allowance than was originally provided for them. There by finding in the lowest depth and 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 he demonstrated it's so well that he got his own horse down to a straw a day. And when unquestionably have rendered him very spirited and rampacious an animal on nothing at all. If he had not died four and 20 hours before he used to have his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female, 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 can try to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food. It did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of 10, either that it's 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 they're 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'd been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scolded to death when there happened to be a washing of the latter accident was very scarce. If anything approaching to a washing of 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. These inferences were speedily checked for the evidence of the surgeon and the testimony of the beetle, the former of whom would always open the body and found nothing inside, which is very probable indeed, and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted, which is 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 will 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 plenty of room to expand thanks to the spare diet of the establishment. Perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth birthday at all. But this as it may, however, was his ninth birthday, and he was keeping it in the cold cellar with the select party of two other young gentlemen, who after participating with him in the 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 wicked of the Garden Gate. Good gracious is that you, Mr. Bumble sir, said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in a well-affected ecstasy of joy. Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs and wash them directly. My heart life, Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, surely. Now Mr. Bumble was a fat man and choleric, so instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation and kindred spirit, he gave a little wicked and tremendous shake, and he bestowed upon him a kit which would have emulated from no leg but a beadle. The law, I only think, said Mrs. Mann running out, for the three boys had been removed by this time. I only think of that, that I should have forgotten the gate was bolted on the inside, and out 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 modified the beadle. Do you think this is respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann, required Mr. Bumble grasping his cane? Keep the parish officers awaiting at your Garden Gate, and 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 stupendery? I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only telling one or two, the dear children, as he's so fond of you, how is you are coming? replied Mrs. Mann with great humility. Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one and vindicated the other. He relaxed. Well well, Mrs. Mann, he replied in a calm manner. It may be, as you say. It may lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business and I have something to say. Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into the small pile with a brick floor, placed a seat for him, and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered. Glance complacently hit the cocked hat and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beedles are but men, but Mr. Bumble smiled. Now, don't you be offended at what I'm going to say? He observed Mrs. Mann with the captivating sweetness. He went a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will he take a little drop for 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 just noticed the tone of the refusal and the gesture that had accompanied it. Just a little drop with cold water and a lump of sugar. Mr. Bumble coughed. Now, just a little drop, said Mrs. Mann persuasively. What is it, inquired the Beedle? Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house to be put in the blessed infant's daffy when they ate well, Mr. Bumble. Applied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, put down a bottle and glass. It's gin, I'm not deceiving you, Mr. B, it's gin. Do you give the children the 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. Couldn't see him suffer before my very eyes, you know, sir? No, said Mr. Bumble, approvingly. No, you could not. You are humane woman, Mrs. Mann. Here she sat down the glass. I shall take an early opportunity of mentioning to the board, Mrs. Mann. He drew it towards him. You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann. He stirred the gin and water. I digged your health and cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann. And he swallowed half of it. The now-bad business, said the beadle, taking out a leather and pocketbook, the child that was half baptized Oliver Twist is nine-year-old today. Bless him, into post, 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 a most superlative, and I must say supernatural, exertions on the part of this parish, said Bumble, who had never been able to discover who his father or what was his mother's settlement or condition. The beadle drew himself up with great pride and said, I am wedded it. You, Mr. Bumble. Hi, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was an S, Swubble, I named him. This was a T, Twist, I named him. Next one comes will be Unwin, and the next, Wilkins. I've got names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z. Oh, you're quite a literary character, sir, said Mrs. Mann. Well, well, said the beadle, evidently gratified with a 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 is determined to have him back into the house. I've 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 as the outer coat of dirt which he crusted 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 beadle 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 up what he called sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beadle's chair, or shaking a fist at him with a furious countness. He took the hint at once, but 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 to 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 a little brown cloth parish 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 in the gloom of his infant years. 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, with Oliver firmly grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every court 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 bosoms had by this time evaporated, and he was once again a beetle. Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse quarter of an hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of bread, but Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned, and telling him it was a board night, informed 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. Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head with his cane to wake him up, and another 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 a 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 her name, boy? said the gentleman in the high chair. Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble, and the beadle 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 ease. Boy, said the gentleman in the high chair. Listen to me. You know you're an orphan, I suppose. What's that, sir? Inquire, poor Oliver. The boys a fool had thought he was, said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Hush, said the gentleman who had spoken first. You know you've got no father or mother, and you were brought up by the parish, don't you? Yes, sir, Oliver replied, weeping bitterly. What are you crying for? Inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat to be sure as a very extraordinary. What could the boy be crying for? I hope you say your 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 marvellously good Christian, too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care of him. But he hadn't, because nobody had taught him. Well, you've come here to be educated and bought a useful trade, said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair. So you'll begin to pick oakum tomorrow morning at six o'clock, and at the surly one in the white waistcoat. From a combination of both these blessings, in the one simple process of picking oakum, 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 paupers go to sleep. Poor Oliver, he little thought as he lay sleeping in happy unconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very day arrived at a decision which exercised the most material influence over his future fortunes. But they had, and this was it. Members of the board were very sage, deep philosophical men, and when they came to turn their attention to the workouts, they found out at once what ordinary folks would never have discovered. The poor people liked it. It was a regular place of public entertainment for the poor classes, a tavern where there was nothing to pay, public breakfast, dinner, tea and supper all year round, a brick-and-mortar Elysium, where all was play and no work. Oh, ho! said the board, looking very knowing. We are the fellows to set this to rights. We'll stop it all in no time. So they established the rule that poor people should have the alternative where they would compel nobody, not they, for being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a quick one out of it. With this view 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 a thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week and a half roll on Sunday. They made a great many otherwise in human regulations. Having references 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 doctors' commons, and instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had therefore too done, took his family away from him, made him a bachelor. There is no saying how many applicants were 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-headed 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 Twisk 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 porpoise, which fluttered loosely on their wasted shrunken forms after a week or two's gruel. A number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as the porpoise, 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, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of this festive composition, on each boy had one porringer and no more, except on occasions a 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. For when they 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 deciduously, with a view of catching up many 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, but lastly got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy who was tall for his age, and hadn't been used to that sort of thing, or 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 wailed hungry eyes, and they implicitly believed him. The 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 and his cook's uniform, staging himself at the copper. His pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him. The gruel was served out, for a long grace was set over the short commons. The gruel disappeared, the boys whispered to each other in winter Oliver, while his next neighbours 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 in 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 paralysed 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 a ladle, pinning him in his arm, and shrieked aloud for the beadle. The board was sitting in solemn concrate, 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, horrid, and was depicted on every countenance. For more, said Mr Limpkins, compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly, do I understand that you ask for more, after eating the supper allotted by this dietary? He did, sir, replied Bumble. That boy will be hung, said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. I know that boy will be hung. Nobody controverted the fetic gentleman's opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into an instant confinement, and a bill was next morning pasted 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 Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted to apprentice to any trade, business, or calling. Never was I more convinced of anything in my life, said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill the 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 proposed to showing the sequel, whether the white-wasted 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 by termination or no. End of chapter two. Chapter three of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens His LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter three relates how Oliver Twist was very near getting a place which had not 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, but 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 individual's prophetic character once and forever, by tying one end of his pocket handkerchief to a hook in the wall and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, Oliver, there was one obstacle, namely that pocket handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of the paupers 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 alone, waking with a start and a tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even in its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and lowliness which surrounded him. Let us not be supposed by the enemies of the system that during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exorcise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exorcise, 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 and 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 the authority in the board, 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. At chance one morning while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, 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 four-five pounds of the desired amount, and in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cuddling his brains and his donkey when passing the workhouse. His eyes encountered the bill on the gate. Whoa! said Mr Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction, wandering probably whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot 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 inevitably would have beaten in any skull by the donkeys. In catching hold of the bridle he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, while 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 in the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself with 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. The five pounds was the sum he had just 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 the register stoves. So he spelt the bill through again from beginning to end, and touching his fur cap in a token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. This here boy saw what the parish wants to print his, 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 in a good, spectable chimney-sweetened business, said Mr Gamfield. I want an apprentice 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, had 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 at first seen him. It's a nasty trade, said Mr Limpkins, when Gamfield again stated his wish. Young boys had been smothered in chimneys before now, said another gentleman. As of course they damped the straw full, they lit it in the chimney to make them come down again, said Gamfield. That's all smoke and no blaze, whereas smoke ain't no use at all in making a boy come down, but 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-op blaze to make them come down with a run. It's humane too, gentlemen, because even as they stuck in the chimney, roasting their feet makes them struggle to extricate themselves. The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation. But his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr Limpkins. The boy then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so lower 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 Limpkins said, We have considered all proposition, and we don't approve of it. Not at all, said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, decidedly not out of 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 the board had perhaps in some unaccountable freak taken into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, as they had, but still as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his captain in his hands and walked slowly from the table. So you won't let me have him, gentlemen, said Mr Gamfield, pausing near the door. At least it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offer. Mr Gamfield's countenance brightened as with a quick step he returned to the table and said, What will you give me, gentlemen? Come, don't be too hard on a poor man, what will you give? I should say three pound ten was plenty, said Mr Limkins. Potentialing's 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 and all. There, three pound ten, repeated Mr Limkins, firmly. Come, I'll split the difference, gentlemen, urged Gamfield, three pound fifteen. Well, a farthing more was the firm reply of Mr Limkins. You're desperate hard upon me, gentlemen, said Gamfield, wavering. 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 to 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. Mr Gamfield gave an arched look at the faces around the table, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broken to the 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 in order to put himself into a clean shirt. And hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, but Mr Bumble brought him with his own hands a basin of gruel, and a holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously, thinking not unnaturally, the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they would never have begun to fatten him up in that one. Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful, said Mr Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. You're going to be made apprentice of Oliver. Prenticeur, said the child, trembling. Yes, Oliver, said Mr Bumble, kind and blessed gentleman, which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own. I'm going to apprentice you and set you up for 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 ounces, an awful and naughty awful which nobody can't love. As Mr Bumble paused to take a 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, what was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced. Come, Oliver, wipe your eyes with the cuffs on your jacket, and don't cry into your groom. That's a very foolish action, Oliver, certainly was, but 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 apprenticed that he should like it very much indeed, both of which in junctions Oliver promised to obey. The rather as Mr Bumble, through a gentle hint that 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. The boy remained with a palpitating heart for half an hour, at the expiration of which time Mr Bumble thrust his head on the dawn with a cocked hat and said aloud, 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 young lad school. Oliver stared innocently in Mr Bumble's face at his 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 that two old gentlemen with powdered heads, one of whom was reading a newspaper, or the others perusing with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shelled spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr Limkin was standing in front of the desk on one side, and Mr Ganfield 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 the little bit of parchment. Then there was a short pause. Oliver had been stationed by Mr Bumble in front of the desk. This is the boy you'll worship, said Mr Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve, whereupon the last mentioned the old gentleman woke up. Oh, this is the boy, said the old gentleman. This is him, sir, bled Mr Bumble, bow to the magistrate, my dear. Oliver roused himself and made his best abeasance. He had been wandering with his eyes fixed on the magistrate's powder, but the old boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. Well, said the old gentleman, as opposed to his fond of chimney sweeping. He dotes on it your worship, replied Bumble, giving Oliver a slight pinch to intimate that he'd better not say that he didn't. And he will be as sweet with you and quiet the old gentleman. If we were to bind him to any other tray tomorrow, he'd run away simultaneous your worship. And this man, as to be his master, you, sir, you, treat him well and feed him, and do all that sort of thing when you, said the old gentleman. When I say's I will, I means I will, replied Mr Gamfield. You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look at unlist open-hearted man, said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles in the direction of a candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half-blind, half-childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people do. 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, signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straight away hurried off. It was a chance to be immediately under his nose. It followed as a matter of course, and 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 admonitory 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, looked from Oliver to Mr. Limpkins, who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. My boy, said the old gentleman, you look pale and alarmed, what's 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 onto his knees and, clasping his hands together, prayed that they were ordering back into the dark room, that they would starve him, beat him, kill him, if they pleased, rather than send him away with that dreadful man. Well, said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with the most impressive solemnity. Well, of all the artful and designing orphans that I ever see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-faced of us. 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 heard a rite. Did your worship speak to me? Yes, hold your tongue. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A Beedle ordered to hold his tongue. A moral revolution. The old gentleman in the tortoise shelf's spectacles looked at his companion he nodded significantly. We refuse to sanction these indentures, said the old gentleman, tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. I hope, damned Mr. Olympians, 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 in sharply. Take the boy back to the workhouse and treat him kindly. He seems to want it. That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat, most positively and decidedly affirmed, although only the Oliver would be hung, that he would be drawn and caught and into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said that he wished he might come to knew good. Whereunto, Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him, which although he agreed with the Beedles in most matters, seemed to be a wish of totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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, reminder or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist in some small trading vessel bound for a good unhealthy poor. 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, someday after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar. Both pastimes being, as it 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 a 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. No lesser person than Mr Sauerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr Sauerberry was a tall, gaunt, large, jointed man, tied 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 jocosity. His step was elastic, his face betokened inward presentry, 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 your fortune, Mr Sauerberry, said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the profit snuff box of the undertaker, which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. I say you'll make your fortune, Mr Sauerberry, repeated Mr Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder in a friendly manner with his cane. Think so, said the undertaker, at a tone which half admitted, and half disputed the probability of the event. The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr Bumble. So are the coffins replied to beadle with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr Sauerberry 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 shallower 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 drawback. Fair profit is, of course, allowable. Of course, of course, replied the undertaker. If I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, well, I'll make it up in the long run, you see. Just so, said Mr Bumble. Though I must say, continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle 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 rates for many years are the first to sink. And when they come into the house, let me tell you, Mr Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits, especially when one has a family to provide for, sir. As Mr Sibery said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man, and Mr Bumble felt that 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 prentice, who is at present a dead weight, a millstone, as I may say, round the parochial throat. Liberal terms, Mr Sibery, 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. Gattone, said the undertaker, taking Mr Bumble by the guilt edge to the pellet 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 this is, Mr Bumble. I've never noticed it before. Yes, I think it's rather pretty, said the beadle-grossing, proudly down as at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. The dyer 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 Sibery. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman who died in the doorway at midnight. I recollect, said the undertaker. The jury brought in, died for exposure to the cold, and wanted the common necessaries of life, didn't they? Mr Bumble nodded. They made it a special verdict, I think, said the undertaker, or adding some words to the effect that if the relieving officer had tush, foolery, and defosed the beadle, 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 it 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 beadle, snapping his fingers contentiously. No more they have, acquiesced the undertaker. I despise them, said the beadle, glowing very red in the face. So do I, rejoin the undertaker. And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort in the house for a week or two, said the beadle. The rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for them. Let them alone for that, replied the undertaker, so saying he smiled approvingly to calm the rising wroth of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat, took the hanker chief in the inside of the crown, wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered, fixed a cock hat on again, and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice, Well, what about the boy? Oh, replied the undertaker, well, you know Mr Bumble would pay a good deal towards the poor's rates. Hmm, said Mr Bumble, well. Well, replied the undertaker, I was thinking if I pay so much towards him, I've got 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 Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes, and it was arranged that Oliver should go with him that evening upon liking, a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master fined upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of the 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 a 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 sea, 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 the smallest tokens of the want of feeling on 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, was in a fair way being reduced for life to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness 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, and as much it was all comprised, within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about a half 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 beetles always should, and it being a windy day, the lion was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flat waistcoat and drab plush knee-breaches. 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 heir of gracious patronage. Oliver said, Mr Bumble. Yes, sir, replied Oliver in a low, tremulous voice. Put that cap off your eyes and hold up your head, sir. Oliver did as he was desired, and at once passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes. He left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr Bumble gave sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. He was followed by another and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr Bumble's, he covered his face with both and wet until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. Well exclaimed Mr Bumble, stocking short, darting his little charge a look of intense malignity. Well, of all the ungratefulest and worst-disposed boys as I ever 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, or sir, don't pray be cross with me. The child beat his hand upon his heart, and looked into his companion's face with tears of real agony. Mr Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous 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, bayed Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy, and 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 for the light of a most appropriate and dismal candle, but Mr Bumble entered. Ah, said the undertaker, looking up from the book and pausing in the middle of a word. Is that you, Bumble? No one else, Mr Sowerberry, replied the beetle. Here I 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 Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear? Mrs Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, presented the form of a short, then squeezed up woman with vixenish countenance. An idea, said Mr Snowberry, deferentially. This is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of, Oliver bowed again. Dear me, said the undertaker, why, he's very small. Why, he is rather small, replied Mr Bumble, looking at Oliver, as if it were his fault that he was no bigger. He is small, there's no denying it, but he'll grow, Mrs Sowerberry, he'll grow. Ah, dare say he will, replied the lady pettishly, on our vitals and our drink. See, no saving in parish children, not I, for they always cost more to keep than they're worth. However, men always think they're no best. There, get downstairs, little bag of bones. With this, the undertaker's wife opened the side door and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of steps into a stone cell, damp and dark, forming the anti-room to the coal cellar, and denominated kitchen, wherein such a slattenly girl ensues down at the heel, and blue-wasted stockings, very much out of repair. Here, Charlotte, said Mr Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, give this boy some of the coal bits that were put by for trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without them. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat them, are you, boy? Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was tremblingly eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative, and a plate full of coarse-broken vitals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher whose meat and drink turned to coal with it in, whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron, could have seen Oliver twist, cutting at the dainty violins that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits at the sunder, with all the ferocity of a famine. There was 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 and Oliver, and 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. And come with me, said Mrs. Sarah, by taking up a dim, dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs. Your bed's under the counter, if you don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose, but it doesn't much 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 Chapter 5 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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 oar and dread, which many people a good deal older than he would 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 the hands in the breecher's 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 allamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckloths, 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 fresher 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 lain 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 a door, will ya? cried a voice, which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door. I will directly serve, replied Oliver, undoing the chain and turning the key. I suppose you're a new boy, ain't ya? said a voice through the keyhole. Yes, sir, replied Oliver. How old are ya? inquired the voice. Ten, sir, replied Oliver. Then I'll wop you when I get in, said the voice. You just see if I don't. That's all my workhouse brat. Having made his obliging promise, the voice began to whistle. Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive mono-symbol 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 honourably, 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 keyhole had walked a few paces off to warm himself. For nobody did he see but a big charity voice 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 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. Do you want a coffin, sir, in quite Oliver, innocently? That there's the charity boy looked monstrous fierce and said that Oliver would want one before long if he cut jokes with his superiors than that. You don't know who I am, I suppose, workers, said the charity boy in continuation, descending from the top of the post, meanwhile with edifying gravity. No, sir, rejoined Oliver. I'm Mr. Noah Claypool, said the charity boy, and you're under me. Take down the shut as your idle young Ruffian. This Mr. Claypool administered kick to Oliver and entered the shop with a dignified air which did him great credit. It was 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 face, are a red nose, and yellow small. Oliver, having taken down the shutters and broken a pane of glass in his effort to stagger away between 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, having consoled him with the assurance that he'd catch it, condescended to help him. Mr. Solbury came down soon after. Shortly afterwards Mr. Solbury appeared, Oliver having caught it, in fulfilment of Noah's prediction, followed the young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast. Come near the fire, Noah, said Charlotte. I save the nice little bit of bacon for you for master's breakfast. Oliver shut that door at Mr. Noah's back and take them bits that I'll put for you on the cover of a 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 mind a shot. Dear air workers, said Noah Claypool. Lord Noah, said Charlotte, what a rum creature you are, why don't you let the boy alone? Let him alone, said Noah. Or 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 way pretty well. Hey, Charlotte. Oh, you queer souls, said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh in which he was joined by Noah, after which they both look 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 workhouse 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 washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal penchant of tuppence hake me, and an unstable fraction. The shop boys in the neighbourhood 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 interest. 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 quality to divert in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity. Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker some three weeks or a month, Mr. and Mrs. Sohovery, the shop being shut up, were taking their supper in the little backpawler, when Mr. Sohovery, after several deferential glasses of his wife said, My dear, he was going to say more, but Mrs. Sohovery looking up with a peculiar unpropitious aspect, he stopped short. Well, said Mrs. Sohovery sharply. Nothing, my dear, nothing, said Mr. Sohovery. Brute, said Mrs. Sohovery. Well, at all, my dear, said Mr. Sohovery, humbly. I thought you didn't want to hear, my dear, I was only going to say, Oh, don't tell me what you're going to say and oppose Mrs. Sohovery. I'm nobody. Don't consult me. Pray I don't want to intrude upon your secrets. As Mrs. Sohovery said this, she gave him an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences. But my dear, said Sohovery, I want to ask your advice. No, no, don't ask mine, replied Mr. Sohovery, in an affecting manner. Ask somebody else's. Here there was another hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr. Sohovery very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very effective. He then once reduced Mr. Sohovery to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sohovery was most curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission was most graciously conceded. It's only about young twists, my dear, said Mr. Sohovery. Very good-looking boy, that, my dear. He needs beef, or eats enough, observed the lady. There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear, as in Mr. Sohovery, which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love. Mrs. Sohovery looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sohovery remarked it, and without a long 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. He may depend upon it. It would have a superb effect. Mr. Sohovery, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of this idea. As it would have been compromising 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. Sohovery rightly construed this as an aqueousiesence of his proposition. It was speedily determined. Therefore the olive should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade, and with this in 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, supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his large Leaven pocketbook, from which he selected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sohovery. Aha! said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance. An order for a coffin, eh? For a coffin first and a parochial funeral afterwards replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strip of the Leaven pocketbook, which, like himself, was very corpulent. Baton, said the undertaker, looking from the scrap Bumble, never heard the name before. Bumble shook his head as he replied, Obstinate people, Mr. Sohovery, very obstinate, proud too, I'm afraid, sir. Proud, eh? exclaimed Mr. Sohovery with a sneer, calmness too much. Oh, it's sickening, replied the beetle, anti-monal, Mr. Sohovery. So it is, acquiesced. We only heard of the family the night before last, said the beetle, and we shouldn't have known anything about them, that 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 who was very bad. He'd gone out to dinner, but his apprentice, which is a very clever lad, sent him some medicine in a blacking bottle offhand. Ah, there's promptness, said the undertaker. Promptness indeed, replied the beetle. What's the consequence? What's the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband said it's back work, but the medicine won't suit his wife's complaint. So she shan't take it, sir. Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with great success. The two Irish labourers and a coal-eaver only a week before, sent him for nothing with a blacking bottle in, and he sends word back that she shan't take it, sir. The atrocity presented itself to Mr Bumble's mind in full force. He struck the counter sharply with his cane and became flushed with indignation. Well, said the undertaker, I never did. Never did, sir, ejaculated the beagle. No, nor anybody ever did. And now she's dead, and we've got to bury her. And that's the direction, and the sooner it's done, the better. Thus saying, Mr Bumble put on his cocked hat, wrong side first, in a fever of parochial excitement, and flams out of the shop. Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after a year, he said, Mr Sir, I'll be looking after the beagle, as he strode down the street. Yes, sir, replied, Oliver, carefully kept himself out of sight during the interview, and he 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 for Mr Bumble's guards, 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 the trial, the subject was better avoided, until such times 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 legally overcome. Well, said Mr Soeberry, taking up his hat, the sooner the job is done, the better. Now I'll 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, forced to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, very old, intended by people of the poorest class as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony, afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally sculpt along. A great many of the tenements had shop fronts, but these were fast closed and moulding away, only the upper rooms being inhabited, some houses which had become insecure for 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 rough bores which supplied the place of door and window were wrenched from their positions to befall 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 putrifying in its rottenness were hideous with famine. There was neither a locker 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 to keep close to him and not to be afraid, the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against the door of the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles. It was opened by a young girl of 13 or 14. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained. Tonight was the apartment at 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 stall at the coal hearth who was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner, and in a small recess opposite the door, they lay upon the ground something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes towards the place, crept him voluntarily closer to his master. Although 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 nearer, said the man, starting fiercely up as the undertaker approached the recess. Keep back, damn you, keep back if you were life to lose. Nonsense, my good man, said the undertaker. He was pretty well used to misery in its shapes. Nonsense. I'll tell you, said the man, clenching his hands and stamping fiercely on the floor. I'll tell you, I won't have her put in the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms will worry her, not eat her. She's so worn away. Ah, said the man, bursting into tears and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman. Kneel down, kneel down, kneel around her. Every one of you remarked my words. I say she was starved to death. I never knew her about. She was to the fever come upon her. Then her bones were starting through the skin. It 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 had dried up. But I was starved at her death. I swear it before the God that I saw it. They starved her. He pined his hands in his hair, and with a lot of scream rolled, grovelling upon the floor. His eyes fixed, and the phone covering his lips. The terrified children cried bitterly, but the old woman who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she'd been wholly deafed all at pass, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained, extended on the ground, she tottered 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 leer, more ghastly, and even the presence of death in such a place. Lord, Lord, well, it's a strange that I gave birth to her, and was then a woman then. She'll be alive and merry now, and she's lying there so cold stiff. Lord, Lord, think of it. This is good as a play. Good as a play. The wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment. The undertaker turned to go away. Stop, stop, said the old woman. We'll she be buried tomorrow, next day or tonight. I laid her out, and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak, a good warm one, for it's bitter cold. We shall have cake and wine, too, before we go. Never mind, send some bread. Only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall I 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 and the old woman's grasp, and drawing Oliver after him hurried away. The next day, the family having been meanwhile relieved with half a cotton loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself. Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode, but Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black coke 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. May I must put you a best leg foremost, old lady, which is so aberrant to the old woman's ear, where rather late it won't do to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men, 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 so aberrant walked at a good pace in front, and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side. There was not so great a necessity for hurrying, as Mr. Soverey had anticipated, however, for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish 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 beer on the brink of the grave, and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay with a cold rain trickling down, while the ragged boys, whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard, played a noisy game at high and seek among the tombstones, were buried their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Soverey and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him. At length, after a lapse of something more than no, Mr. Bumble and Soverey 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. Now Bill said sorrowfully to the grave digger, fill her 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 the earth, stamped it loosely down with his feet, shoulder displayed and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints of the fun being over so soon. Come on, 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 a few paces and fell down in the swim. 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. When he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate and departed on their different ways. Well Oliver said so, as they walked home, how do you like it? Pretty well, thank you sir, replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation, not very much sure. Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver, said Sarabery, nothing when you're used to it, my boy. Oliver wondered in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sarabery 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 Chapter 6 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6 Oliver, being goaded by the taunts of Noah, rouses into action and rather astonishes him. The months trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up, and in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sarabery's ingenious speculation exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. Their oldest inhabitants recollected no period in which medals have been so prevalent or so fatal to infant existence, and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-ban 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 exhibitions too, and although he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities in observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance, when Sarabery 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, when they would be as happy among themselves as need to 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 husband, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming an attractive as possible. It was observable too that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of internment 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. 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 meagly 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, and while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill because Noah did, and Mrs. Sarabee was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sarabee 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 and 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, pound and a half at the worst end of the neck. When Charlotte, being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time which Noah Claypool, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalizing young Oliver Twist. Intent 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 want to be funny, he got rather personal. "'Workers!' said Noah. "'As your mother!' "'She's dead,' replied Oliver. "'Don't you say anything about her to me?' Oliver's colour rose, as he said this. He breathed quickly, and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr Claypool thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. "'Or she died of work,' 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 like to die of that.' "'Told he roll, told he low, right for Larry, workers,' said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "'Or set you a snivelin now.' "'Not you,' replied Oliver sharply. "'There, that's enough. "'Don't say anything more to me about her. "'You'd better not.' "'Better not!' exclaimed Noah. "'Well, better not, workers. "'Don't be impudent. "'Your mother too. "'She was a nice and she was old law.' "'And here, Noah nodded his head expressively, "'and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action "'could collect together for the occasion.' "'You know, workers,' continued Noah, "'emboldened by Oliver's silence, "'speaking in a juring tone of affected pity, "'of all the tones the most annoying. "'You know, workers, it can't be helped now. "'And, of course, you couldn't help it then. "'I'm very sorry for it. "'I'm sure we all are, and pity you very much. "'But you must know, workers, "'your mother was a regular right down by. "'And regular right down by, workers,' repeated Noah coolly. "'And it's a great deal better, workers, "'than she died when she did, "'or else she'd have been hard laboring in Bridewell, "'or transported or hung, "'which is more likely than Ivor, isn't it?' "'Crimson with fury, Oliver started up, "'over through the chair and table, "'sees 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 into the ground. "'The minute the go, the boy had looked the quiet child, "'myle, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. "'But his spirit was roused at last, "'the cruel himself to his dead mother, "'and 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 no lay crushing at his feet, "'and defied him with an energy "'he had never known before. "'You'll murder me, blubber Noah. "'Charlotte misses, here's a new boy, a murderer of me. "'El, El, Oliver's gone mad, Charlotte!' Noah's shouts were responded by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Soabry, 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 murderer's horrid villain, "'and between every syllable, "'Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might, "'accompany 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. Soabry plunged into the kitchen "'and assisted to hold him in one hand "'while she scratched his face with the other. "'In his favorable position of affairs, "'Nahua rose from the ground "'and pummelled him from behind. "'It was rather too violent an exercise to last long. "'When they were all wearied out "'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 darned Mrs. Soabry "'sancted to a chair and burst into tears. "'Bless her, she's going off,' said Charlotte. "'Glass of water, no idea, make haste.' "'Oh, Charlotte,' said Mrs. Soabry, "'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.' "'Ah, mercy indeed, man,' was the reply. "'I only hope this teacher master "'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, man, when I come in.' "'Poor fellow,' said Mrs. Soabry, "'looking piteously at the charity boy. "'Noah, whose top waistcoat button "'might have been somewhere on the level "'with the crown of Oliver's head, "'rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists "'while this commissuration was bestowed upon him "'and performed some affecting tears and sniffs. "'What's to be done?' exclaimed Mrs. Soabry. "'Your master's not at home. "'He's not a man in the house. "'And he'll kick that door down in 10 minutes.' "'Oliver's vigorous plungers "'against the bit of timbering question. "'Render this occurrence highly probable.' "'Dear, dear, I don't know, ma'am,' said Charlotte, "'unless we send for the police officers. "'All are milling, Terry,' suggested Mr. Claypole. "'No, no,' said Mrs. Soabry, "'but 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, you can hold a knife to that black eye "'as you run along. "'He'll keep the swelling down.' "'Noah stopped to make no reply, "'but started off at his fullest speed, "'and very much it astonished the two people "'who were out walking to see a charity boy, "'tearing through the street's pel-mel, "'with no cap on his head "'and a clasp knife at his eye.'" End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 7 Oliver Continues Refractory Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath until he reached the workhouse gate. 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 pauper 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 pauper? "'Mr Bumble, Mr Bumble,' cried Noah, with well-effecting dismay and tone so loud and agitated, that they had not only caught the ear of Mr Bumble himself, who happened to be hard-buy, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cot hat, which was a very curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beetle acted upon 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, "'Oliver, sir, Oliver, as—' "'What, what!' interposed Mr Bumble with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. "'Not run away, has he? Hasn't run away, has he, Noah?' "'No, sir, no, not run away, sir, but he's turn-vicious,' 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 arrived and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions, thereby giving Mr Bumble to understand that from the violent and sanguaring the onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was, at that moment, suffering the acutious torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly, paralyzing Mr Bumble, he imparted an additional effect there unto, 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 lamentations than ever, rightly conceiving, in a highly expedient to attract the notice, and roused the indignation of the gentleman aforesaid. Gentleman's notice was very soon attracted, for he did not walk three paces when he turned angrily around and inquired what that young curl was handling 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, so replied Mr Bumble, who has been nearly murdered, all but murdered, sir, by young twists. By Joe, exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short, I knew it. I felt a strange presentiment for the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung. He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant, so Mr Bumble with a face of ashy paleness. And his misses interposed Mr Claypole. And his master, too, I think he said, no, I did, Mr Bumble. No, he's out, or he would have murdered him, replied no. He said he wanted to. Ah, said he wanted to. Did he, my boy, inquire of the gentleman in the white waistcoat? Yes, sir, replied no. And please, sir, Mrs wants to know whether Mr Bumble could spare the 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, patting Noah's head, which is 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 so I'll please with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble. No, I will not, sir, replied the beetle. And the cocked hat and cane, having been by this time adjusted to their own is satisfaction. Mr Bumble and Noah Claypole but took themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. 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. So had been returned at this juncture, Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the lady's thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar door in a twinkling and dragged his rebellious apprentice out by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn when in the beating he had received, his face was bruised and scratched, and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however, and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. No, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you, said Soharby, giving Oliver a shake and a box on the air? He called my mother names, replied Iber. Well, what if he did you little ungrateful wretch, said Mrs Soharby? She deserved what he said and worse. She didn't, said Oliver. She did, said Mrs Soharby. It's a lie, said Oliver. Mr Soharby burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr Soharby no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents, in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters, too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went, was not very extensive, kindly disposed towards the boy, perhaps because it was in his interest to be so, perhaps because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource, so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs Soharby 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 Soharby, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary 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 his feelings, which the day's treatment may be supposed lightly, to have awakened Nermir a child. He had listened to their taunts, with a look of contempt. He'd borne the lash without a cry, or he felt that pride and swelling in his heart, which would have kept down a shriek 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 cause to pour out before him. For a long time Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. Candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet, having gazed cautiously around 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, further from the earth than he'd ever seen them before. There was no wind, and the somber shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground looked separable and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door, having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle, tied 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 of the shutters, Oliver arose and again unbarred the door. One timid look around, one moment's pause of hesitation, he'd closely behind him and was in the open street. He looked to the right and 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 arrived at the footpath across the fields, which he knew after some distance led out again into the road, stuck to it and walked quickly on. Along the same footpath Oliver well remembered he had trotted beside Mr Bumble, when he had first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage, his heart beat quickly when he'd be thought himself of this, and he had half resolved to turn back. He'd 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 stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped and peeped into the garden. The child was weeding one on 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, although younger than himself he had been his little friend and playmate. He'd been beaten and starved and shut up together many and many a time. Hush Dick said Oliver as the boy ran to the gate and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. Is anyone up? Nobody but me replied the child. He mustn't say you saw me Dick said Oliver. I'm running away. They beat Neil, use me Dick, and I'm going to seek my fortune some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are! I heard the doctor tell him I was dying, replied the child with a faint smile. I'm very glad to see you dear, but don't stop, don't stop. Yes, yes, I will. To say goodbye 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'm dead but not before. I know the doctor must be right Oliver, because I dream so much of heaven and angels and kind faces, but I never see when I'm awake. Kiss me said the child climbing up the low gate and flinging his little arms around Oliver's neck. Goodbye dear, God bless you. The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard and voked upon his head. And through the struggles and sufferings and troubles and changes of his afterlife, he never once forgot it. End of chapter 7