“They had better not!” said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. “Let
me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume
to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn’t do it a second time!”
Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have
seemed no very high compliment to the lady’s charms; but, as Mr.
Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she
was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested,
with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove.
The dove then turned up his coat collar, and put on his cocked
hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with
his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night;
merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers’ ward, to
abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he
could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity.
Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a
light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion, which
served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the
undertaker.
Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and
supper, and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take
upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is
necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of
eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past
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the usual hour of shutting up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on
the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and
beholding a light shining through the glass window of the little
parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see
what was going forward; and when he saw what was going
forward, he was not a little surprised.
The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread-
and-butter, plates and glasses; a porter pot and a wine-bottle. At
the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in
an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms, an open
clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other.
Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel,
which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable
avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young
man’s nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that
he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were
confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for
which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties
in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted.
“Here’s a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!” said Charlotte; “try
him, do; only this one.”
“What a delicious thing is a oyster!” remarked Mr. Claypole,
after he had swallowed it. “What a pity it is, a number of ’em
should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn’t it, Charlotte?”
“It’s quite a cruelty,” said Charlotte.
“So it is,” acquiesced Mr. Claypole. “Ain’t yer fond of oysters?”
“Not overmuch,” replied Charlotte. “I like to see you eat ’em,
Noah, dear, better than eating ’em myself.”
“Lord!” said Noah reflectively; “how queer!”
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“Have another,” said Charlotte. “Here’s one with such a
beautiful, delicate beard!”
“I can’t manage any more,” said Noah. “I’m very sorry. Come
here, Charlotte, and I’ll kiss yer.”
“What!” said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. “Say that
again, sir.”
Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr.
Claypole, without making any further change in his position than
suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in
drunken terror.
“Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!” said Mr. Bumble.
“How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you
encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!” exclaimed Mr.
Bumble, in strong indignation. “Faugh!”
“I didn’t mean to do it!” said Noah, blubbering. “She’s always a-
kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.”
“Oh, Noah,” cried Charlotte reproachfully.
“Yer are; yer know yer are!” retorted Noah. “She’s always adoin’ of it. Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please,
sir; and makes all manner of love!”
“Silence!” cried Mr. Bumble sternly. “Take yourself downstairs,
ma’am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your
master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home,
tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman’s shell
after breakfast tomorrow morning. Do you hear, sir? Kissing!”
cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. “The sin and wickedness
of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If
Parliament don’t take their abominable courses under
consideration, this country’s ruined, and the character of the
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peasantry gone for ever!” With these words, the beadle strode,
with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker’s premises.
And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road
home, and have made all necessary preparations for the old
woman’s funeral, let us set on foot a few inquiries after young
Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch
where Toby Crackit left him.
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Chapter 28
Looks After Oliver, And Proceeds With His
Adventures.
“W olves tear your throats!” muttered Sikes, grinding
his teeth. “I wish I was among some of you; you’d
howl the hoarser for it.”
As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most
desperate ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he
rested the body of the wounded boy across his bended knee; and
turned his head, for an instant, to look back at his pursuers.
There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but
the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking
of the neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm-bell,
resounded in every direction.
“Stop, you white-livered hound!” cried the robber, shouting
after Toby Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was
already ahead. “Stop!”
The repetition of the word brought Toby to a dead standstill.
For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of
pistol-shot; and Sikes was in no mood to be played with.
“Bear a hand with the boy,” cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to
his confederate. “Come back!”
Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice,
broken for want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as
he came slowly along.
“Quicker!” cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet,
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and drawing a pistol from his pocket. “Don’t play booty with me.”
At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking
round, could discern that the men who had given chase were
already climbing the gate of the field in which he stood; and that a
couple of dogs were some paces in advance of them.
“It’s all up, Bill!” cried Toby; “drop the kid, and show ’em your
heels.” With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the
chance of being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken
by his enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes
clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate
form of Oliver the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled;
ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of
those behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a
second, before another hedge which met it at right angles; and
whirling his pistol high in the air, cleared it at a bound, and was
gone.
“Ho, ho, there!” cried a tremulous voice in the rear. “Pincher!
Neptune! Come here, come here!”
The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have
no particular relish for the sport in which they were engaged,
readily answered to the command. Three men, who had by this
time advanced some distance into the field, stopped to take
counsel together.
“My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my orders, is,” said the
fattest man of the party, “that we ’mediately go home again.”
“I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,”
said a shorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who
was very pale in the face, and very polite; as frightened men
frequently are.
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“I shouldn’t wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,” said the
third, who had called the dogs back, “Mr. Giles ought to know.”
“Certainly,” replied the shorter man; “and whatever Mr. Giles
says, it isn’t our place to contradict him. No, no, I know my
sitiwation! Thank my stars, I know my sitiwation.” To tell the
truth, the little man did seem to know his situation, and to know
perfectly well that it was by no means a desirable one; for his teeth
chattered in his head as he spoke.
“You are afraid, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.
“I ain’t,” said Brittles.
“You are,” said Giles.
“You’re a falsehood, Mr. Giles,” said Brittles.
“You’re a lie, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.
Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt; and Mr.
Giles’s taunt had arisen from his indignation at having the
responsibility of going home again, imposed upon himself under
cover of a compliment. The third man brought the dispute to a
close, most philosophically.
“I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,” said he, “we’re all afraid.”
“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of
the party.
“So I do,” replied the man. “It’s natural and proper to be afraid,
under such circumstances. I am.”
“So am I,” said Brittles; “only there’s no call to tell a man he is,
so bounceably.”
These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned
that he was afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran
back again with the completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who
had the shortest wind of the party, and was encumbered with a
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pitchfork) most handsomely insisted on stopping, to make an
apology for his hastiness of speech.
“But it’s wonderful,” said Mr. Giles, when he had explained,
“what a man will do, when his blood is up. I should have
committed murder—I know I should—if we’d caught one of them
rascals.”
As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment;
and as their blood, like his, had all gone down again; some
speculation ensued upon the cause of this sudden change in their
temperament.
“I know what it was,” said Mr. Giles; “it was the gate.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” exclaimed Brittles, catching at
the idea.
“You may depend upon it,” said Giles, “that that gate stopped
the flow of the excitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I
was climbing over it.”
By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited
with the same unpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was
quite obvious, therefore, that it was the gate; especially as there
was no doubt regarding the time at which the change had taken
place, because all three remembered that they had come in sight
of the robbers at the instant of its occurrence.
This dialogue was held between the two men who had
surprised the burglars, and a travelling tinker who had been
sleeping in an outhouse, and who had been roused, together with
his two mongrel curs, to join the pursuit. Mr. Giles acted in the
double capacity of butler and steward to the old lady of the
mansion; Brittles was a lad of all work, who, having entered her
service a mere child, was treated as a promising young boy still,
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though he was something past thirty.
Encouraging each other with such converse as this; but,
keeping very close together, notwithstanding, and looking
furtively round, whenever a fresh gust rattled through the boughs;
the three men hurried back to a tree, behind which they had left
their lantern, lest its light should inform the thieves in what
direction to fire. Catching up the light, they made the best of their
way home, at a good round trot; and long after their dusky forms
had ceased to be discernible, the light might have been seen
twinkling and dancing in the distance, like some exhalation of the
damp and gloomy atmosphere through which it was swiftly borne.
The air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled
along the ground like a dense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet;
the pathways, and low places were all mire and water; and the
damp breath of an unwholesome wind went languidly by, with a
hollow moaning. Still, Oliver lay motionless and insensible on the
spot where Sikes had left him.
Morning drew on apace. The air became more sharp and
piercing, as its first dull hue—the death of night, rather than the
birth of day—glimmered faintly in the sky. The objects which had
looked dim and terrible in the darkness, grew more and more
defined, and gradually resolved into their familiar shapes. The
rain came down, thick and fast, and pattered noisily among the
leafless bushes. But Oliver felt it not, as it beat against him; for he
still lay stretched, helpless and unconscious, on his bed of clay.
At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed;
and uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a
shawl, hung heavy and useless at his side; the bandage was
saturated with blood. He was so weak, that he could scarcely raise
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himself into a sitting posture; when he had done so, he looked
feebly round for help, and groaned with pain. Trembling in every
joint, from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand
upright; but, shuddering from head to foot, fell prostrate on the
ground.
After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long
plunged, Oliver, urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which
seemed to warn him that if he lay there, he must surely die, got
upon his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he
staggered to and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up,
nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast,
went stumbling onward, he knew not whither.
And now hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came
crowding on his mind. He seemed to be still walking between
Sikes and Crackit, who were angrily disputing—for the very words
they said, sounded in his ears; and when he caught his own
attention, as it were, by making some violent effort to save himself
from falling, he found that he was talking to them. Then, he was
alone with Sikes, plodding on as on the previous day; and as
shadowy people passed them, he felt the robber’s grasp upon his
wrist. Suddenly, he started back at the report of firearms; there
rose in the air, loud cries and shouts; lights gleamed before his
eyes; all was noise and tumult, as some unseen hand bore him
hurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions, there ran an
undefined, uneasy consciousness of pain, which wearied and
tormented him incessantly.
Thus he staggered on, creeping almost mechanically, between
the bars of gates, or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way,
until he reached a road. Here the rain began to fall so heavily, that
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it roused him.
He looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a
house, which perhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they
might have compassion on him; and if they did not, it would be
better, he thought, to die near human beings, than in the lonely,
open fields. He summoned up all his strength for one last trial, and
bent his faltering steps towards it. As he drew nearer to this house,
a feeling came over him that he had seen it before. He
remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and aspect of the
building seemed familiar to him.
That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on his
knees last night, and prayed the two men’s mercy. It was the very
house they had attempted to rob.
Oliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the
place, that, for the instant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and
thought only of flight. Flight! He could scarcely stand; and if he
were in full possession of all the best powers of his slight and
youthful frame, whither could he fly? He pushed against the
