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<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens</title>

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<p>
      The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in
      his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.
    </p>
<p>
      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,
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘For <i>more</i>!’ 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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He did, sir,’ replied Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That boy will be hung,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ‘I
      know that boy will be hung.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00005">
      CHAPTER III — RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE
      WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE
    </h2>
<p>
      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 pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to
      the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one
      obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 far from being denied the advantages of religious
      consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at
      prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with,
      a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein
      inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made
      good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins
      and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to
      be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of
      wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil
      himself.
    </p>
<p>
      It chanced one morning, while Oliver’s affairs were in this auspicious and
      comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the
      High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying
      certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather
      pressing. Mr. Gamfield’s most sanguine estimate of his finances could not
      raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a
      species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his
      brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered
      the bill on the gate.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Wo—o!’ said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to ‘prentis,’ said Mr. Gamfield.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ay, my man,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a
      condescending smile. ‘What of him?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s a nasty trade,’ said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated
      his wish.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,’ said another
      gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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 proceeded to converse among themselves for a few
      minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words ‘saving of expenditure,’ 
      ‘looked well in the accounts,’ ‘have a printed report published,’ were
      alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their
      being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.
    </p>
<p>
      At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having
      resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We have considered your proposition, and we don’t approve of it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not at all,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Decidedly not,’ added the other members.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So you won’t let me have him, gen’l’men?’ said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near
      the door.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned
      to the table, and said,
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’ll you give, gen’l’men? Come! Don’t be too hard on a poor man.
      What’ll you give?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I should say, three pound ten was plenty,’ said Mr. Limbkins.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ten shillings too much,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come!’ said Gamfield; ‘say four pound, gen’l’men. Say four pound, and
      you’ve got rid of him for good and all. There!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Three pound ten,’ repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come! I’ll split the diff’erence, gen’l’men,’ urged Gamfield. ‘Three
      pound fifteen.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a farthing more,’ was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men,’ said Gamfield, wavering.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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
      unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some
      useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that
      way.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A prentice, sir!’ said the child, trembling.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, Oliver,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘The kind and blessed gentleman which is
      so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are 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 nobody can’t love.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This is the boy, your worship,’ said Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, is this the boy?’ said the old gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This is him, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble. ‘Bow to the magistrate, my dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well,’ said the old gentleman, ‘I suppose he’s fond of chimney-sweeping?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He doats on it, your worship,’ replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch,
      to intimate that he had better not say he didn’t.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And he <i>will</i> be a sweep, will he?’ inquired the old gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he’d run away
      simultaneous, your worship,’ replied Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘When I says I will, I means I will,’ replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hope I am, sir,’ said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      It was the critical moment of Oliver’s fate. If the inkstand had been
      where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into
      it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway
      hurried off. But, as 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘My boy!’ said the old gentleman, ‘you look pale and alarmed. What is the
      matter?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
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<p>
      ‘Well!’ said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive
      solemnity. ‘Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see,
      Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hold your tongue, Beadle,’ said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble
      had given vent to this compound adjective.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having
      heard aright. ‘Did your worship speak to me?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes. Hold your tongue.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his
      tongue! A moral revolution!
    </p>
<p>
      The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his
      companion, he nodded significantly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We refuse to sanction these indentures,’ said the old gentleman: tossing
      aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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
      totally opposite description.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00006">
      CHAPTER IV — OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST
      ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE
    </h2>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr.
      Bumble,’ said the undertaker.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,’ said the beadle, as he thrust
      his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker:
      which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. ‘I say you’ll make
      your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,’ repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker
      on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So are the coffins,’ replied the beadle: with precisely as near an
      approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.
    </p>
<p>
      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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘every trade has its drawbacks. A fair
      profit is, of course, allowable.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Just so,’ said Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble nodded.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Tush! Foolery!’ interposed the beadle. ‘If the board attended to all the
      nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough to do.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Very true,’ said the undertaker; ‘they would indeed.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Juries,’ said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when
      working into a passion: ‘juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling
      wretches.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So they are,’ said the undertaker.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They haven’t no more philosophy nor political economy about ‘em than
      that,’ said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No more they have,’ acquiesced the undertaker.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I despise ‘em,’ said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So do I,’ rejoined the undertaker.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Let ‘em alone for that,’ replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled,
      approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.
    </p>
<p>
      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:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well; what about the boy?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh!’ replied the undertaker; ‘why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good
      deal towards the poor’s rates.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hem!’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Well?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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
      ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 knee-breeches. 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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oliver!’ said Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little
      charge a look of intense malignity. ‘Well! Of <i>all</i> the
      ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So what?’ inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      The undertaker, who had just put up 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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Aha!’ said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the
      middle of a word; ‘is that you, Bumble?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,’ replied the beadle. ‘Here! I’ve brought the
      boy.’ Oliver made a bow.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented
      the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘My dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, ‘this is the boy from the
      workhouse that I told you of.’ Oliver bowed again.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dear me!’ said the undertaker’s wife, ‘he’s very small.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, he <i>is</i> 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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the
      affirmative.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00007">
      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
    </h2>
<p>
      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 death-like that a cold tremble
      came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal
      object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly
      rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged,
      in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking
      in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was
      alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the
      best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends
      to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was
      fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank
      heavily into his heart.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Open the door, will yer?’ cried the voice which belonged to the legs
      which had kicked at the door.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I will, directly, sir,’ replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning
      the key.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I suppose yer the new boy, ain’t yer?’ said the voice through the
      key-hole.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘How old are yer?’ inquired the voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ten, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Oliver at length: seeing that no other
      visitor made his appearance; ‘did you knock?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I kicked,’ replied the charity-boy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Did you want a coffin, sir?’ inquired Oliver, innocently.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, sir,’ rejoined Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘D’ye hear, Work’us?’ said Noah Claypole.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Lor, Noah!’ said Charlotte, ‘what a rum creature you are! Why don’t you
      let the boy alone?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 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 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after
      several deferential glances at his wife, said,
    </p>
<p>
      ‘My dear—’ He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking
      up, with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing, my dear, nothing,’ said Mr. Sowerberry.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ugh, you brute!’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,’ interposed Mrs.
      Sowerberry. ‘I am nobody; don’t consult me, pray. <i>I</i> don’t want to
      intrude upon your secrets.’ As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an
      hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘But, my dear,’ said Sowerberry, ‘I want to ask your advice.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s only about young Twist, my dear,’ said Mr. Sowerberry. ‘A very
      good-looking boy, that, my dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He need be, for he eats enough,’ observed the lady.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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
      required.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Aha!’ said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance;
      ‘an order for a coffin, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bayton,’ said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr.
      Bumble. ‘I never heard the name before.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Bumble shook his head, as he replied, ‘Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry;
      very obstinate. Proud, too, I’m afraid, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Proud, eh?’ exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. ‘Come, that’s too
      much.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, it’s sickening,’ replied the beadle. ‘Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So it is,’ acquiesced the undertaker.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah, there’s promptness,’ said the undertaker.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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, only a week before—sent ‘em for nothing, with a
      blackin’-bottle in,—and he sends back word that she shan’t take it,
      sir!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well,’ said the undertaker, ‘I ne—ver—did—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever
      of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely
      inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more
      dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look
      for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either
      side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by people of the
      poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently
      denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      The man’s face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly;
      his eyes were bloodshot. 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 afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed
      so like the rats he had seen outside.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nonsense, my good man,’ said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to
      misery in all its shapes. ‘Nonsense!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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 <i>is</i>
      strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be
      alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to
      think of it; it’s as good as a play—as good as a play!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment,
      the undertaker turned to go away.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 thrashed a boy or two, to keep up
      appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial
      service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the
      clerk, and walked away again.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now, Bill!’ said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. ‘Fill up!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come, my good fellow!’ said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. ‘They
      want to shut up the yard.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, Oliver,’ said Sowerberry, as they walked home, ‘how do you like
      it?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Pretty well, thank you, sir’ replied Oliver, with considerable
      hesitation. ‘Not very much, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah, you’ll get used to it in time, Oliver,’ said Sowerberry. ‘Nothing
      when you <i>are</i> used to it, my boy.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
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