Oliver Twist
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 tomorrow, 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 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.
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 solemnity. “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 totally opposite description.
The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was
again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would
take possession of him.
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 proffered snuff-box of the
undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. “I
say you’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” repeated Mr. Bumble,
tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his
cane.
“Think so?” said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted 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