OLIVER TWIST CAPITULO VI

CHAPTER VI

OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO

ACTION,

AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM

The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just

at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few

weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's

ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants

recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant

existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hatband

reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the

mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions

too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of

nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of

observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people

bear their trials and losses.

For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or

gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had

been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been

wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among

themselves as need be--quite cheerful and contented--conversing together with as much

freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands,

too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on

weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had

made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was

observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the

ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became

quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and

improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.

That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I

cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of

confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to

submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse

than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the

black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap

and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his

decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between

these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as

comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain

department of a brewery.

And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an

act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a

material change in all his future prospects and proceedings.

One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to

banquet upon a small joint of mutton--a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck--

when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which

Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a

worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.

Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled

Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a 'sneak'; and

furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that

desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance,

like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry,

Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes

do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal.

'Work'us,' said Noah, 'how's your mother?'

'She's dead,' replied Oliver; 'don't you say anything about her to me!'

Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious

working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate

precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge.

'What did she die of, Work'us?' said Noah.

'Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,' replied Oliver: more as if he were

talking to himself, than answering Noah. 'I think I know what it must be to die of that!'

'Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us,' said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's

cheek. 'What's set you a snivelling 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! Work'us, don't be impudent. YOUR

mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!' 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.

'Yer know, Work'us,' continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in

a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: 'Yer know, Work'us, it

can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it;

and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer

mother was a regular right-down bad 'un.'

'What did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.

'A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us,' replied Noah, coolly. 'And it's a great deal

better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have been hard labouring in

Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn't it?'

Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the

throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and

collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.

A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected

creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel

insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his attitude was

erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the

cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy

he had never known before.

'He'll murder me!' blubbered Noah. 'Charlotte! missis! Here's the new boy a

murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char--lotte!'

Noah's shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from

Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the

latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the

preservation of human life, to come further down.

'Oh, you little wretch!' screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which

was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training. 'Oh,

you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!' And between every syllable,

Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream, for the

benefit of society.

Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in

calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold

him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable

position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him behind.

This was rather too violent 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 being done, Mrs.

Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.

'Bless her, she's going off!' said Charlotte. 'A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!'

'Oh! Charlotte,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a

deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her

head and shoulders. 'Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our

beds!'

'Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am,' was the reply. I only hope this'll teach 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, ma'am, when I come in.'

'Poor fellow!' said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the charity-boy.

Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the

crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this

commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.

'What's to be done!' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'Your master's not at home; there's not

a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes.' Oliver's vigorous

plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly probable.

'Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am,' said Charlotte, 'unless we send for the policeofficers.'

'Or the millingtary,' suggested Mr. Claypole.

'No, no,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking 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.

It'll keep the swelling down.'

Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it

astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the

streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.

Oliver Twisty Capítulo IV y V

Chavos dos capítulos IV y V.....

CHAPTER IV

OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO

PUBLIC LIFE

In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession,

reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very

general custom to send him to sea. The board, in 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 to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very

best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper

would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his

brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very

favourite and common recreations among gentleman 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 despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view

of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and

was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he

encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.

Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black,

with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features

were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given

to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry,

as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.

'I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble,' said the

undertaker.

'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and

forefinger into the proferred snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little

model of a patent coffin. 'I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' repeated Mr.

Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.

'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the

probability of the event. 'The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.'

'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as

a great official ought to indulge in.

Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a

long time without cessation. 'Well, well, Mr. Bumble,' he said at length, 'there's no

denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something

narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr.

Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles

come, by canal, from Birmingham.'

'Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course,

allowable.'

'Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don't get a profit upon this or that

particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see--he! he! he!'

'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 when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble,

that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits:

especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.'

As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as

Mr. Bumble felt 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 bye,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A

porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the

porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?' As Mr. Bumble

spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the

words 'five pounds': which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.

'Gadso!' said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel 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 never noticed it before.'

'Yes, I think it rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large

brass buttons which embellished his coat. 'The die is the same as the porochial seal--the

Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on

Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to

attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight.'

'I recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jury brought it in, "Died from exposure to the

cold, and want of the common necessaries of life," didn't they?'

Mr. Bumble nodded.

'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the

undertaker, 'by adding some words to the effect, that if the

relieving officer had--'

'Tush! Foolery!' interposed 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 was his wont when working into

a passion: 'juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.'

'So they are,' said the undertaker.

'They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that,' said the

beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.

'No more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker.

'I despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing very red in the face.

'So do I,' rejoined the undertaker.

'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two,'

said the beadle; 'the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit

down for 'em.'

'Let 'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to

calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.

Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown;

wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the

cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice:

'Well; what about the boy?'

'Oh!' replied the undertaker; why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the

poor's rates.'

'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Well?'

'Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a

right to get as much out of 'em 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 to him that evening 'upon liking'--a phrase which means, in the case of

a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough

work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term

of years, to do what he likes with.

When little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that evening; and informed that he

was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; 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 orered Mr.

Bumble to remove him forthwith.

Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel

in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of

feeling 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; and was in a fair way of 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, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper

parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep--he pulled his cap over his eyes;

and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that

dignitary to a new scene of suffering.

For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle

carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little

Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew

open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush kneebreeches.

As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it

expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his

new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious

patronage.

'Oliver!' said Mr. Bumble.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.

'Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.'

Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied

hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor.

As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by

another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one.

Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and

wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers.

'Well!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his

little charge a look of intense malignity. 'Well! Of ALL the

ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver,

you are the--'

'No, no, sir,' sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the

well-known cane; 'no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed,

indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is

so--so--'

'So what?' inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.

'So lonely, sir! So very lonely!' cried the child. 'Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't,

don't pray be cross to me!' The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in 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,' bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy.

Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence.

The undertaker, who had just putup the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in

his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble

entered.

'Aha!' said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a

word; 'is that you, Bumble?'

'No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,' replied the beadle. 'Here! I've brought the boy.' Oliver

made a bow.

'Oh! that's the boy, is it?' said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a

better view of Oliver. 'Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a

moment, my dear?'

Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of

a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.

'My dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, 'this is the boy from the workhouse that I

told you of.' Oliver bowed again.

'Dear me!' said the undertaker's wife, 'he's very small.'

'Why, he IS rather small,' replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault

that he was no bigger; 'he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs.

Sowerberry--he'll grow.'

'Ah! I dare say he will,' replied the lady pettishly, 'on our victuals and our drink. I see

no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're

worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o'

bones.' With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a

steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the

coal-cellar, and denominated 'kitchen'; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at

heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.

'Here, Charlotte,' said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, 'give this boy

some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the

morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em--are

you, boy?'

Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with

eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals

was set before him.

I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose

blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty

viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity

with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only

one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same

sort of meal himself, with the same relish.

'Well,' said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had

regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: 'have you

done?'

There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.

'Then come with me,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and

leading the way upstairs; 'your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among

the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether you do or 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.

CHAPTER V

OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR

THE

FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S

BUSINESS

Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp down on a workman's

bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many

people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin

on black tressels, 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 highshouldered

ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets.

Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on

the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation

of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse

drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot.

The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the

counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave.

Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a

strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes

feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The

regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and wellremembered

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 a voice began.

'Open the door, will yer?' cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked

at the door.

'I will, directly, sir,' replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key.

'I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?' said the voice through the key-hole.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.

'How old are yer?' inquired the voice.

'Ten, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Then I'll whop yer when I get in,' said the voice; 'you just see if I don't, that's all, my

work'us brat!' and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle.

Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive

monosyllable just recorded bears 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

key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big

charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter:

which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed

with great dexterity.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his

appearance; 'did you knock?'

'I kicked,' replied the charity-boy.

'Did you want a coffin, sir?' inquired Oliver, innocently.

At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would want one

before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way.

'Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?' said the charity-boy, in continuation:

descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying gravity.

'No, sir,' rejoined Oliver.

'I'm Mister Noah Claypole,' said the charity-boy, 'and you're under me. Take down the

shutters, yer idle young ruffian!' With this, Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver,

and entered the shop with a dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a

large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look

dignified under any circumstances; but it is more especially so, when superadded to

these personal attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls.

Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to

stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house

in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having

consoled him with the assurance that 'he'd catch it,' condescended to help him. Mr.

Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared.

Oliver having 'caught it,' in fulfilment of Noah's prediction, followed that young

gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.

'Come near the fire, Noah,' said Charlotte. 'I saved a nice little bit of bacon for you

from master's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah's back, and take them bits

that I've put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There's your tea; take it away to that

box, and drink it there, and make haste, for they'll want you to mind the shop. D'ye

hear?'

'D'ye hear, Work'us?' said Noah Claypole.

'Lor, Noah!' said Charlotte, 'what a rum creature you are! Why don't you let the boy

alone?'

'Let him alone!' said Noah. 'Why everybody lets him alone enough, for the matter of

that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with him. All his relations let

him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!'

'Oh, you queer soul!' said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in which she was

joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat

shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which

had been specially reserved for him.

Noah was a charity-boy, but not a 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 pension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The shopboys

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

bourne 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

qualities are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.

Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker's some three weeks or a month. Mr. and

Mrs. Sowerberry--the shop being shut up--were taking their supper in the little backparlour,

when Mr.

Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his wife, said,

'My dear--' He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up, with a

peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.

'Well,' said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.

'Nothing, my dear, nothing,' said Mr. Sowerberry.

'Ugh, you brute!' said Mrs. Sowerberry.

'Not at all, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. 'I thought

you didn't want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say--'

'Oh, don't tell me what you were going to say,' interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'I am

nobody; don't consult me, pray. _I_ don't want to intrude upon your secrets.' As Mrs.

Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent

consequences.

'But, my dear,' said Sowerberry, 'I want to ask your advice.'

'No, no, don't ask mine,' replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner: 'ask

somebody else's.' Here, there was another hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr.

Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course

of treatment, which is often very effective It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to

begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most

curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission was most graciously conceded.

'It's only about young Twist, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry. 'A very good-looking boy,

that, my dear.'

'He need be, for he eats enough,' observed the lady.

'There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,' resumed Mr. Sowerberry,

'which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.'

Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr.

Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for any observation on the good

lady's part, proceeded.

'I don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children's

practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend

upon it, it would have a superb effect.'

Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck

by the novelty of this idea; but, 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.

Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily

determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the

trade; and, with this view, that he should accompany his master on the very next

occasion of his services being require.

 

The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr.

Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his

large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap of paper, which he

handed over to Sowerberry.

'Aha!' said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; 'an order for a

coffin, eh?'

'For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,' replied

Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book:

which, like himself, was very corpulent.

'Bayton,' said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble. 'I never

heard the name before.'

Bumble shook his head, as he replied, 'Obstinate people, Mr.

Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I'm afraid, sir.'

'Proud, eh?' exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. 'Come, that's too much.'

'Oh, it's sickening,' replied the beadle. 'Antimonial, Mr.

Sowerberry!'

'So it is,' asquiesced the undertaker.

'We only heard of the family the night before last,' said the beadle; 'and we shouldn't

have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges in the same house

made an application to the porochial committee for them to send the porochial surgeon

to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his 'prentice (which is

a very clever lad) sent 'em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.'

'Ah, there's promptness,' said the undertaker.

'Promptness, indeed!' replied the beadle. 'But what's the consequence; what's the

ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back word that the

medicine won't suit his wife's complaint, and so she shan't take it--says she shan't take

it, sir! Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish

labourers and a coal-heaver, ony a week before--sent 'em for nothing, with a blackin'-

bottle in,--and he sends back word that she shan't take it, sir!'

As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he struck the counter

sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation.

'Well,' said the undertaker, 'I ne--ver--did--'

'Never did, sir!' ejaculated the beadle. 'No, nor nobody never did; but now she's dead,

we've got to bury her; and that's the direction; and the sooner it's done, the better.'

Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial

excietment; and flounced out of the shop.

'Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!' said Mr.

Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, during the

interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound

of Mr. Bumble's voice.

He needn't haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble's glance, however; for

that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had

made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon

trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for

seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be

thus effectually and legally overcome.

'Well,' said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat. 'the sooner this job is done, the better.

Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me.' Oliver obeyed,

and followed his master on his professional mission.

They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely inhabited part of

the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any

they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their

search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by

people of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently

dentoed, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men

and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along.

A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and

mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had

become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by

huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even

these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless

wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window,

were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage

of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and

there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine.

There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master

stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver

keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight

of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.

It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw

enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been

directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.

There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty

stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting

beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess,

opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket.

Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to

his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.

The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were

blookshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over

her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afriad to look at either

her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.

'Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker

approached the recess. 'Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!'

'Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all

its shapes. 'Nonsense!'

'I tell you,' said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor,--'I

tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would

worry her--not eat her--she is so worn away.'

The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket,

knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.

'Ah!' said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his

knees at the feet of the dead woman; 'kneel down, kneel down

--kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to

death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones

were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark--

in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out

their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came

back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to

death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!' He twined his hands in

his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and

the foam covering his lips.

The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as

quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence.

Having 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 than even the presence of death

in such a place. 'Lord, Lord! Well, it IS strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a

woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying ther: so cold and stiff!

Lord, Lord!--to think of it; it's as good as a play--as good as a play!'

As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the

undertaker turned to go away.

'Stop, stop!' said the old woman in a loud whisper. 'Will she be buried to-morrow, or

next day, or to-night? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large

cloak: a good warm one:

for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind;

send some bread--only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread,

dear?' she said eagerly:

catching at the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door.

'Yes, yes,' said the undertaker,'of course. Anything you like!' He disengaged himself

from the old woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away.

The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and

a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master

returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied

by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had

been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having

been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the

street.

'Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!' whispered Sowerberry in the old

woman's ear; 'we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move

on, my men,--as quick as you like!'

Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept

as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart 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. Sowerberry 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 bier on the

brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold

rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the

churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their

amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and

Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.

At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry,

and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the

clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then

as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his

surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.

'Now, Bill!' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. 'Fill up!'

It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was

within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it

loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys,

who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.

'Come, my good fellow!' said Bumble, tapping the man on the back.

'They want to shut up the yard.'

The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side,

started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for

a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in

bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any

attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him

safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.

'Well, Oliver,' said Sowerberry, as they walked home, 'how do you like it?'

'Pretty well, thank you, sir' replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. 'Not very much,

sir.'

'Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver,' said Sowerberry.

'Nothing when you ARE used to it, my boy.'

Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr.

Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back

to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard.

thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read

Oliver Twist Capitulo III

Chavos ya saben que hacer..........saludos.

CHAPTER III

RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH

WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE

For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more,

Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been

consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight not

unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the

prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage

individual's prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pockethandkerchief

to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the

performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pockethandkerchiefs

being decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages,

removed from the noses of 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 anon waking with

a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even

its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded

him.

Let it not be supposed by the enemies of 'the system,' that, during the period of his

solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society,

or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather,

and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone

yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a

tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for

society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there

sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so for from being denied the

advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every

evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a

general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by

authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented,

and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the

supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the

powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil

himself.

It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and confortable

state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply

cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which

his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his

finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a

species of arthimetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his

donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate.

'Wo--o!' said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.

The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he

was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two

sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of

command, he jogged onward.

Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more

particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which

would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the

bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his

own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on

the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these

arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.

The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind

him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room.

Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled

joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr.

Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled,

too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing

for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the

dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very

thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and

then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white

waistcoat.

'This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis,' said Mr.

Gamfield.

'Ay, my man,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile.

'What of him?'

'If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable

chimbley-sweepin' bisness,' said Mr. Gamfield, 'I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to

take him.'

'Walk in,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered

behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as

a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white

waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him.

'It's a nasty trade,' said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish.

'Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,' said another gentleman.

'That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come

down again,' said Gamfield; 'that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use

at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes.

Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot

blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if

they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate

theirselves.'

The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation;

but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then

procedded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that

the words 'saving of expenditure,' 'looked well in the accounts,' 'have a printed report

published,' were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or 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. Limbkins said:

'We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it.'

'Not at all,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

'Decidedly not,' added the other members.

As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised

three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in

some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance

ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing

business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he

twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.

'So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?' said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door.

'No,' replied Mr. Limbkins; 'at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take

something less than the premium we offered.'

Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he

returned to the table, and said,

'What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you

give?'

'I should say, three pound ten was plenty,' said Mr. Limbkins.

'Ten shillings too much,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

'Come!' said Gamfield; 'say four pound, gen'l'men. Say four pound, and you've got rid

of him for good and all. There!'

'Three pound ten,' repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.

'Come! I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men, urged Gamfield.

'Three pound fifteen.'

'Not a farthing more,' was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.

'You're desperate hard upon me, gen'l'men, said Gamfield, wavering.

'Pooh! pooh! nonsense!' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'He'd be cheap with

nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He

wants the stick, now and then: it'll do him good; and his board needn't come very

expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!'

Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on

all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble,

was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before

the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon.

In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was

released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly

achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him,

with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a

quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking,

not unaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose,

or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way.

'Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,' said Mr. Bumble,

in a tone of impressive pomposity. 'You're a going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver.'

'A prentice, sir!' said the child, trembling.

'Yes, Oliver,' said Mr. Bumble. 'The kind and blessed gentleman which is so amny

parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to 'prentice you:

and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is

three pound ten!--three pound ten, Oliver!--seventy shillins--one hundred and forty

sixpences!--and all for a naughty orphan which noboday can't love.'

As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice,

the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly.

'Come,' said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings

to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; 'Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with

the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action,

Oliver.' It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already.

On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to

do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted

to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions

Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he

failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they

arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr.

Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him.

There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of

which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and 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, you young

rascal!'

Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of

address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading

him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room,

with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one

of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a

pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr.

Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a

partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots,

were lounging about.

The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of

parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble

in front of the desk.

'This is the boy, your worship,' said Mr. Bumble.

The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and

pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old

gentleman woke up.

'Oh, is this the boy?' said the old gentleman.

'This is him, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'Bow to the magistrate, my dear.'

Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his

eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white

stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account.

'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?'

'He doats on it, your worship,' replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate

that he had better not say he didn't.

'And he WILL be a sweep, will he?' inquired the old gentleman.

'If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your

worship,' replied Bumble.

'And this man that's to be his master--you, sir--you'll treat him well, and feed him, and

do all that sort of thing, will you?' said the old gentleman.

'When I says I will, I means I will,' replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.

'You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man,' said the

old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's

premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But

the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to

discern what other people did.

'I hope I am, sir,' said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.

'I have no doubt you are, my friend,' replied the old gentleman:

fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand.

It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old

gentleman though it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the

indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to

be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over

his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look

straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist:

who, despite all the 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, and looked from Oliver to Mr.

Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect.

'My boy!' said the old gentleman, 'you look pale and alarmed.

What is the matter?'

'Stand a little away from him, Beadle,' said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper,

and leaning forward with an expression of interest. 'Now, boy, tell us what's the matter:

don't be afraid.'

Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order

him back to the dark room-- that they would starve him--beat him--kill him if they

pleased--rather than send him away with that dreadful man.

'Well!' said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnite.

'Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the

most bare-facedest.'

'Hold your tongue, Beadle,' 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 aright.

'Did your worship speak to me?'

'Yes. Hold your tongue.'

Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A

moral revolution!

The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell 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,' stammered Mr. Limbkins: 'I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that

the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony

of a child.'

'The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter,' said the

second old gentleman sharply. 'Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him

kindly. He seems to want it.'

That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly

affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered

into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished

he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come

to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a

wish of a totaly 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.

Oliver Twist Capitulo II

Alumnos en Extraordinario

Imprimir y traducir a mano en hojas blancas para el folder de Tutorías.

CHAPTER II

TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of

treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute

situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the

parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired 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 humanely resolved, that Oliver should be

'farmed,' or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some

three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws,

rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much

clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the

culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week.

Sevenpence-halfpenny's worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal

may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, and make

it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew

what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good

for herself. So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use,

and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was

originally provided for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and

proving herself a very great experimental philosopher.

Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory

about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it so well, that he

had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have rendered

him a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died, fourand-

twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air.

Unfortunately for, the experimenal philosophy of the female to whose protecting care

Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of HER

system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest

possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a

half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from

neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable

little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers

it had never known in this.

Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish

child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded to

death when there happened to be a washing--though the latter accident was very scarce,

anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurance in the farm--the jury would

take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the parishioners would

rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences were

speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the

former of whom had always opened the body and found nothing inside (which was very

probable indeed), and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted;

which was very self-devotional. Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the

farm, and always sent the beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children

were neat and clean to behold, when THEY went; and what more would the people

have!

It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary

or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist's ninth birthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat

diminutive in stature, and decidely small in circumference. But nature or inheritance

had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast. It had had plenty of room to

expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance

may be attributed his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it

was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two

other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been

locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of

the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle,

striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate.

'Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?' said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head

out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. '(Susan, take Oliver and them two

brats upstairs, and wash 'em directly.)--My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to

see you, sure-ly!'

Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this openhearted

salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and

then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle's.

'Lor, only think,' said Mrs. Mann, running out,--for the three boys had been removed by

this time,--'only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on

the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble,

do, sir.'

Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the

heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the beadle.

'Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,' inquired Mr. Bumble,

grasping his cane, 'to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they

come here upon porochial business with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs.

Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?'

'I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children as is so

fond of you, that it was you a 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 calmer tone; 'it may be as you say; it may be.

Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say.'

Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for

him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and can on the table before him. Mr.

Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered,

glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but

men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.

'Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say,' observed Mrs. Mann, with

captivating sweetness. 'You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it.

Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?'

'Not a drop. Nor a drop,' said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but

placid manner.

'I think you will,' said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and the

gesture that had accompanied it. 'Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump

of sugar.'

Mr. Bumble coughed.

'Now, just a leetle drop,' said Mrs. Mann persuasively.

'What is it?' inquired the beadle.

'Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infants'

Daffy, when they ain't well, Mr. Bumble,' replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner

cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. 'It's gin. I'll not deceive you, Mr. B. It's

gin.'

'Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?' inquired Bumble, following with this eyes

the interesting process of mixing.

'Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is,' replied the nurse. 'I couldn't see 'em suffer before

my very eyes, you know sir.'

'No'; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; 'no, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs.

Mann.' (Here she set down the glass.) 'I shall take a early opportunity of mentioning it

to the board, Mrs. Mann.' (He drew it towards him.) 'You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.'

(He stirred the gin-and-water.) 'I--I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann';

and he swallowed half of it.

'And now about business,' said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book. 'The child

that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old to-day.;

'Bless him!' interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her apron.

'And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to

twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat'ral

exertions on the part of this parish,' said Bumble, 'we have never been able to discover

who is his father, or what was his mother's settlement, name, or con--dition.'

Mrs Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment's reflection,

'How comes he to have any name at all, then?'

The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, 'I inwented it.'

'You, Mr. Bumble!'

'I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was a S,--

Swubble, I named him. This was a T,--Twist, I named HIM. The next one comes will

be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end of the

alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z.'

'Why, you're quite a literary character, sir!' said Mrs. Mann.

'Well, well,' said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment; 'perhaps I may be.

Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.' He finished the gin-and-water, and added, 'Oliver being

now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have him back into the house.

I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once.'

'I'll fetch him directly,' said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. Oliver,

having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his face and

hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was led into the room by his

benevolent protectress.

'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 upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beadle's

chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at

once, for the fist had been too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed

upon his recollection.

'Will she go with me?' inquired poor Oliver.

'No, she can't,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'But she'll come and see you sometimes.'

This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had

sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at going away. It was no very

difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are

great assistants 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, less he should seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With

the slice of bread in his hand, and the 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 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

companions in misery he was leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever

known; and a sense of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the child's heart

for the first time.

Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping his gold-laced

cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every quarter of a mile whether they

were 'nearly there.' To these interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish

replies; for the temporary blandness which gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had

by this time evaporated; and he was once again a beadle.

Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an hour, and had

scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble, who

had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned; and, telling him it was a

board night, informed him that the board had said he was to appear before it forthwith.

Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was, Oliver was rather

astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain whether he ought to laugh or

cry. He had no time to think about the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap

on the head, with his cane, to wake him up: and another on the back to make him lively:

and bidding him to follow, conducted him into a large white-washed 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 your 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 his ease.

'Boy,' said the gentleman in the high chair, 'listen to me. You know you're an orphan, I

suppose?'

'What's that, sir?' inquired poor Oliver.

'The boy IS a fool--I thought he was,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

'Hush!' said the gentleman who had spoken first. 'You know you've got no father or

mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don't you?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

'What are you crying for?' inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. And to be

sure it was very extraordinary. What COULD the boy be crying for?

'I hope you 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 have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,' said the red-faced

gentleman in the high chair.

'So you'll begin to pick oakum to-morrow morning at six o'clock,' added the surly one in

the white waistcoat.

For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process of picking oakum,

Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beadle, 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 would exercise

the most material influence over all his future fortunes. But they had. And this was it:

The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when they

came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once, what ordinary

folks would nver have discovered--the poor people liked it! It was a regular place of

public entertainment for the poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a

public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and mortar elysium,

where it was all play and no work. 'Oho!' 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 all poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel

nobody, not they), of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a quick one

out of it. With this view, they contracted with the water-works to lay on an unlimited

supply of water; and with a corn-factor to supply periodically small quantities of

oatmeal; and issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and

half a roll of Sundays. They made a great many other wise and humane regulations,

having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary to repeat; kindly undertook to

divorce poor married people, in consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors'

Commons; and, instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had

theretofore done, took his family away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no

saying how many applicants for relief, under these last two heads, might have started up

in all classes of society, if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the board

were long-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 Twist was removed, the system was in full

operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of the increase in the

undertaker's bill, and the necessity of taking in the clothes of all the paupers, which

fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a week or two's gruel. But the

number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as the paupers; 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 each boy had one

porringer, and no more--except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two

ounces and a quarter of bread besides.

The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons till they

shone again; and when they had performed this operation (which never took very long,

the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at the copper, with

such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was

composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers most

assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have

been cast thereon. Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his

companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months: at last they got so

voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn't been

used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to his

companions, that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem, he was afraid he might

some night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a weakly

youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye; and they implicitly believed him. A

council was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the master after supper that

evening, and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver Twist.

The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook's uniform,

stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him; the

gruel was served out; and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel

disappeared; the boys whispered each other, and winked at 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 at his own temerity:

'Please, sir, I want some more.'

The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupified

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 the ladle; pinioned him in his arm; and

shrieked aloud for the beadle.

The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed

into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman

in the high chair, said,

'Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!'

There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.

'For MORE!' said Mr. Limbkins. 'Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me

distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted

by the dietary?'

'He did, sir,' replied Bumble.

'That boy will be hung,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'I know that boy will

be hung.'

Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion. An animated discussion took

place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning 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 and Oliver Twist

were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or

calling.

'I never was more convinced of anything in my life,' said the gentleman in the white

waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning: 'I never was more

convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung.'

As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated gentleman was right

or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative (supposing it to possess any at

all), if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent

termination or no.